Who Do You Want Me To Be
by mak324
Summary: Buffy Summers will find out the hard way that looks can be deceiving, and that people you know are rarely what they seem as she's thrust into a fight for her life. Buffy is unwillingly thrust into a world she doesn't know, and doesn't understand. A world, some will claim, is her birth right.
1. Chapter 1

Wherever I am when I wake up, it's dark.

Can't see your hand in front of your face dark, blind as a bat dark.

The muscles in my shoulders pinch and ache, and my hands are numb. When I try to wiggle my fingers, I understand the reason.

My hands are tightly bound behind me, wrist bone to wrist bone, at the small of my back with something that feels a little like fishing line.

Okay.

 _Probably not of the good._

I pull a little on my restraints, checking for any sign of weakness or elasticity. They don't budge, and all I succeed in doing is driving the fishing line-like material deeper into my wrists.

 _Not of the good at all._

I stop struggling and inhale deeply, which is when I realize that there's tape over my mouth.

Trying not to panic, I take another deep breath in through my nose, drawing as much air into my lungs as I can and exhaling in what I hope is a calming manner.

I wrinkle my nose up.

There's a smell. It's so strong that I'm not sure how I didn't notice it right off the bat. It's a combination of a lot of different things, but the strongest is cigarettes and that oaky, astringent scent I remember from my dad's Bourbon phase.

There's a hint of leather, and also a sort of wet dirt smell.

And I'm moving. Or rather, the sticky cushion I'm laying on, which I'm pretty sure at this point is the backseat of a car, is moving.

I whip my head from side to side, searching for something, anything in the pitch black to help me get my bearings.

It's at this point that I realize why everything is so dark.

Blindfold.

 _I'm blindfolded._

I do a quick re-cap in my head of everything I've learned in last fifteen seconds.

 _Oh, boy._

I rack my brain, thinking back to earlier in the day. I have no way of knowing how long I've been out, and my brain is too muddled to remember much past these last few moments

.

 _Work brain._

I can't remember anything. It's like someone sucked out everything in my head with a vacuum cleaner.

I mentally retrace my steps.

 _Oh._

Oh, no.

I remember. I remember how I ended up here. I remember how I let it happen. I remember who I was with before.

I remember who my kidnapper is.

I know him.

Isn't that what they say? 90% of kidnappees know who they're kidnapper is?

Or is that murder victims?

 _Ok, let's not with the murder victim._

 _Calm down._

I hear his voice drift back to me, softly, barely audible over the sounds of the stereo in what I'm assuming is the front seat. I recognize it.

Except I don't. Not really, It's hard to know for sure.

Everything's dark and muddled and hazy and I'm trying hard to keep myself firmly in the land of not panicking, but it's not working.

I'm on the verge of the world's biggest wig.

 _What have I gotten myself into?_

" _Dad, I'm leaving!" I call out as I barrel down the staircase, trying to slip on my pumps as I go and failing miserably. I have to stop at the bottom of the stairs and slip them on._

 _My dad walks around the corner coming from the kitchen and eyes me up and down._

 _I roll my eyes when he frowns._

" _It's a little low cut, isn't it?"_

 _I give him a look, raising my eyebrows, and fluff my hair one last time._

" _It's a turtleneck."_

" _A see-through turtleneck."_

 _I have to laugh._

 _He has a point. Although to be fair, it isn't see through. It's just a little sheer._

 _Sheer lace._

 _Sheer black lace._

" _Only a little." I say, smiling sweetly at him, then Vanna White my top. "And hey, wearing a camisole."_

" _Thank God for small favors." He grumps._

 _Dad has a history of being the world's strictest parent. After I graduated high school, he practically begged me to stay in town and live at home, attending UC Sunnydale. Then again, after graduation, he'd demanded I come and work for him, claiming it was the smartest way for me to save money and gain work experience._

 _I've never minded spending the extra time with my Dad. He'd been lonely, I know, raising me on his own. Ever since mom walked out..._

 _But we never talk about mom._

" _Well, it_ is _the third date after all." I tease him,smoothing the hem of my black lace dress down over my legs. I appraise myself in the long mirror beside the front door._

 _Dad scowls at me in the reflection._

 _I smile and turn around to face him._

" _Buffy," he warns._

 _I come up to him and tug on his arm lovingly. "Oh, relax. I'll be perfectly behaved." I grin at him. "Behaving Buffy."_

 _He's still scowling, but his eyes are bright. I lean over and peck him on the cheek._

 _I'm running late. Really late._

 _The thing I said about it being the third date was only half a joke._

 _I would kinda like to know what a girl has to do to get a solid kiss on the lips._

" _So, you'll be home by midnight?" Dad asks my back as I turn to the coat rack and grab my black shoulder bag._

 _I heave a sigh._

 _Overprotective really doesn't even scratch the surface of this man._

" _I'll be home when the date's over." I clarify. Then shrug, winking at him. "Whenever that is."_

 _He looks like he's about to argue with me, so I cut him off before he can with a gentle squeeze of his arm._

" _I'm twenty-four years old, Dad." I smile warmly. "I'll be fine."_

 _I turn away from him, rifling through my bag to make sure I have my phone and wallet. "Besides, you liked this guy, remember?"_

" _Just don't forget to check in." He reminds me, handing me my missing phone._

 _I smile, place it in my bag, agreeing to check in if it gets too late._

 _But I assure him again that I'll be just fine._

 _I give him a final hug and dash out the door, throwing a promise over my shoulder to_ again _check in if my plans change._

 _When I arrive at the restaurant, I see him immediately._

 _He's already seated at cozy looking booth by the window, his hands folded together and placed on the tabletop in front of him. He's fidgeting, as I've noticed he tends to do. He looks just the slightest bit more nervous than usual, and I wonder what it could be that has him so twitchy._

 _He hasn't seen me yet, but from where I'm standing I can see what looks like a bottle of champagne chilling at the center of the table._

 _I have a smile on my face as the hostess guides me around to our table._

 _He has this sweet, slightly sheepish grin on his face when he stands up to pull my chair out for me. He leans in and presses a small, chaste kiss to my cheek and I tamp down the little surge of disappointment I feel that he didn't aim for my lips._

 _But he's just so shy, and I should have expected this._

" _You look lovely tonight, Buffy." He says, reaching for the already uncorked champagne bottle and tilting it to my glass._

 _I smile, taking in the sight of him._

 _Starched white dress shirt, navy jacket. Horn rimmed glasses frame blue eyes, and his platinum colored curls are resting across his forehead, as if he's placed them there on purpose._

" _You don't look half bad, yourself." I say, smiling. "William."_

 _This night is not going exactly as I'd like it to._

 _Willam is being his usual overly polite, gentle self._

 _Which is great, really._

 _But also a little boring._

 _One of the things that had first attracted me to William had been his polite demeanor. He'd apparently found my umbrella, saying that he'd seen me leave it beneath my seat at the local coffee house, and had chased three blocks after me to give it back._

 _He'd been stammering and breathing hard, pushing his glasses up his, mop of platinum curls falling in his eyes. Endearing, and charming in his own way._

 _So, even though he wasn't my normal type, I'd agreed instantly when he'd asked me out to dinner the following night._

 _And when he'd asked me out again, after that._

 _And again after that._

 _I had kept thinking, each time we'd see each other, that he'd eventually come out of his shell._

 _I'm starting to think I was wrong._

 _I smile at him and let him order dessert for us, taking another sip of champagne, hoping if he drinks a little more of his he'll finally loosen up._

 _He turns his eyes back to me, and I can see how very blue they are behind the lenses of his glasses._

 _Not for the first time, I wonder what he'd look like with contacts._

" _Are you having a good time?" He asks, giving me a small smile._

 _I smile back and nod. "Yes, very much."_

 _It might be a lie. I'm not sure._

 _I do like him._

 _Maybe I just need more time?_

 _He's the first man I've gone on any real dates with since college, and the first man I've met that dad has actually approved of after meeting him._

 _Probably a little something to do with him being of the non-threatening variety._

" _Have you been having any luck at work recently? Make any new world changing discoveries?" He asks me, smiling, leaning back to take a sip of champagne._

 _Something…different flashes in his eyes, but it's gone before I can think too much about it._

" _Not really," I sigh, exhaling through my nose._

More work talk?

" _Still sorta stuck on trying to re-create those chemical compounds. Dad and I've been doing some extra work with them lately, but nothing's panned out so far." I shrug, wrinkling my nose. "They sort of explode a lot."_

 _I frown, looking down at the table. William's always taken an interest in my work, which I've never really understood._

" _It's really not all that exciting." I say, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction. Dad's told me so many times, over and over again since I started working for him, that the work we're doing is basically top secret._

 _Strictly need to know._

 _William is decidedly of the not needing._

" _I think everything about you is exciting, pet."_

 _My eyes whip up to meet his, and there's that flash again. This is the first time I've ever heard him use this tone of voice._

 _I've never heard him purr before._

 _I swallow hard, my mouth dry now. "Really?"_

 _I manage not to sound completely lame when I respond._

 _He smirks at me over the rim of the champagne flute he's holding, his long fingers draped almost delicately around the stem. I watch as he leans forward and sets it down on the table, tilting his head slightly._

 _I can't tear my eyes away from his lips, twisted in that knowing smirk, and suddenly I'm leaning forward, too._

" _Yes," he purrs again, his accent thickening, voice like molten honey, "really."_

 _So quickly that I think I might have imagined the whole thing, his usual gentlemanly smile slips back into place and he leans back, leaving me bewildered as our waitress returns and places the small tray of beautifully decorated berries in between us._

 _She asks us a question but I don't hear her, mind reeling, too busy reevaluating everything I've come to think I know about the man sitting across from me._

 _Maybe not so boring after all?_

 _The teasing words to my dad from earlier float back to my ears._

It is the third date, after all.

 _I start to feel dizzy, a hot flush warming my cheeks._

" _Are you alright, Buffy?"_

 _And just like that, he's back to the William I'm used to. Overly polite, brow furrowed in concern as he gazes at me from behind the rims of his glasses._

 _But his eyes are sparkling, and the blue is darker now._

 _The room tilts in a funny way, and I watch him closely. For a moment I swear his eyes turn black._

" _Y-yeah," I stammer, shaking my head to clear it. "I'm f-fine. I just—" A wave of nausea hits me out of nowhere, cutting me off. I inhale sharply and brace my hands on the edge of the table._

 _William is up and out of his chair in an instant. His hands are on my arms, lifting me up out of the chair so quickly I'm on my feet before I can think to tell him what's going on. He's murmuring something to our waitress as we pass her, his arm a steel band around my waist. He's half dragging me with him through the restaurant._

He's so strong _._

 _My head is spinning by the time we reach the street and the nausea has only gotten worse and any second now I'm sure I'm going to vomit pink champagne all over William's expensive suit if he doesn't loosen his grip on me._

 _And then suddenly we stop, and we're in the dark of an alleyway about a block down from the restaurant._

 _I have no idea how we've managed to move so fast. I'm heaving in deep, ragged breaths and he's whipping me around to face him. Hiis hands come to rest on either side of my head, tilting it to the right and then to left._

 _For a moment I think he's simply going to cradle my face in his hands but instead he begins using his fingers to force my eyes open._

 _I hadn't even noticed that I'd closed them until now._

 _His hands are rough as he holds my head still and looks back and forth from one wide eye to the other, muttering curses under his breath. I'm more confused than I was a moment ago, and his eyes are so cold, and the sidewalk is spinning, spinning, spinning and I can't breathe._

I can't breathe.

 _By the time I realize that the reason for this is because William has both his arms banded tightly around my ribcage in a vice, I'm already losing consciousness._

 _He's crushing me to him in a mockery of a lover's embrace._

 _I try to scream and can't. There's no air._

 _Through the haze and my blurred vision I manage to lock eyes with him just once more before everything goes black._

 _His eyes glow golden._


	2. Chapter 2

If he's noticed that I'm awake, he doesn't say anything.

Just keeps humming along to the music drifting back to me, up front and a little to my left. The radio is turned on very, very low, but I'm picking up on snippets of songs here and there. I figure that I'm on my back across the back seat, my head situated on the cushion behind the driver's side.

I grow still and listen hard, leaning my head a little to the left. I vaguely recognize the chorus to a punk song I know I've heard once or twice before.

Very carefully, moving as slowly as I can, I try pulling my wrists apart again. The pain is biting and sharp, and I'm grateful for the piece of tape over my mouth as it stifles my gasp.

OK _. That's a bust._

I shift just slightly on the seat and notice for the first time that although my hands are bound, my feet are not. My heart rate speeds up. If I can get the blindfold off, or push it far enough down that my eyes are free at least, maybe I can try and make a run for it the next time the car stops.

It's a long shot, but desperate times.

My thoughts drift to my dad. I'm sure he's noticed I'm missing by now. I never checked in with him. He could have people out searching for me this very minute.

And then, as if I've willed it so myself, I feel the motion of the car start to slow down. Gradually, as though we're pulling off to the side of the road, until we're no longer moving.

I freeze, listening as the radio snaps off, the engine shuts down. I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until my lungs start to burn and I let it out my nose in a whoosh.

The driver's side door pops open with a squeak, and the car shifts and rocks with his weight as he steps out of the car and slams it shut again.

And then I'm alone.

I have no idea how long I have, so I immediately begin to wiggle around on the seat, thrashing my head back and forth in an attempt to dislodge the blindfold enough so that I can just see _something_. It's taking too long, and the blindfold isn't tied loose enough around my head to do more than chafe against the sensitive skin it connects with.

 _Right. New plan._

I kick my feet out in front of me wildly, searching. My high heeled pumps are still on. I kick one off but leave the other, thinking I can use it for a weapon if I need to.

I reach the bare toes of my right foot out and come in contact with the far side door. Trailing my foot over the ridges where the door becomes the window and continuing down, I creep along inch by inch until finally, _finally_ my toe brushes against something cold and metal.

I shift my foot a little to the left and hook the tops of my toes underneath the edge of the handle, yanking it back as hard as I can.

I hear the distinct sound of the door popping open.

I did it. I actually did it.

 _Color me shocked._

I'm so happy, and excited and relieved in this moment as I begin to wriggle my way down the backseat toward my freedom that it catches me completely off guard when two strong, calloused hands wrap around both my ankles.

Before I can react, I'm being yanked down and out, off the back seat and out onto the hard asphalt. Dazed, I don't even register the ground beneath me before those same hands are wrapped around my upper arms, dragging me to a standing position.

The door slams shut, and I find myself shoved against the hard metal of the car so hard and fast that I see stars beneath the blindfold.

And then the blindfold's gone, ripped away, taking a few strands of my hair with it. My cry of pain is muffled once again.

I blink once. Twice. My eyes focus in on the man before me, and the same thought I'd had earlier comes back to me as I stare at this face that I _do_ know but don't.

William stares back at me, his expression unreadable. We look at each other in silence for what feels like ages, my mind and heart racing. His grip tightens on my upper arms and I whimper in pain. To my horror, this seems to amuse him.

A slow smile spreads across his lips and he leans in closer to me, inhaling deeply before leaning back once more.

"Hello, cutie."

 _I'm going to die._

In this moment, I feel sure of it. It's kind of funny.

Not the dying part, but the way I feel about the dying part.

I would have thought I'd feel more fear. More panic. Maybe sorrow. At the very least, some sort of sense of loss for the future– the years of life I'll never see.

What I feel, instead, is rage.

I stare down the man sitting across from me, my chest heaving, arms still bound tightly behind my back. I feel vulnerable and exposed, and my lips are chapped from where the tape has been ripped away from my mouth. But the blindfold is gone, so at least I can see now.

 _Not that it's doing much good._

He gazes back at me, his face calm, the smallest of smirks playing on his lips and looking for all the world like he owns the place.

Which yeah, _technically_ , he does. His car and all.

I continue to look at him, my eyes taking in his appearance and feeling my palms slick with sweat. I'm confused by what I'm seeing, at this man sitting across from me in the driver's seat that's William, but not.

He's hard where William was soft. In his clothing, his body, even his face...it's the same, but there's a wicked smirk instead of a smile, and his platinum curls are tamed and slicked back away from his forehead.

It makes the planes of his cheekbones stand out in a way I've never noticed before.

He's eyeing me, an almost predatory gleam in his eyes. He's waiting for me to say something. I know somewhere in the back of my mind that survival instincts dictate that I beg for my life.

That I feel some measure of fright, impending doom, maybe an intense desire to run away.

Still, where there should be a desire for self-preservation there is only hot, heavy anger.

"Who are you?" I demand, frustrated when my voice wavers with something that sounds a lot like fear. "Really."

He appraises me slowly, raking his cold blue eyes down my body to the curve of my hip and back up again. His brow is furrowed, smirk still in place, as though trying to solve some riddle with a very funny punch line but requires his deepest concentration. He has one hand on the console between us, the other lightly on the steering wheel.

He lifts his hand off the console and lays it on my leg, right over my knee. His eyes drop down to watch his fingers play over my skin. He pushes them a little higher, dipping just barely beneath the hem of my lace dress. I gasp. His hands feel like ice.

When his eyes flick back up to mine, they're fathomless and dark.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound, when I instinctively flinch away from him and removes his hand from my leg, placing it back on the gear shift.

My skin burns where he's touched me.

I watch his face as he tilts his head to the side, brow smoothing. His smirk turns lascivious, curling his tongue up behind his front teeth. The gesture borders on obscene, and again I realize that no, I don't know this man at all.

"Who do you want me to be?"

At that, anger flares from somewhere deep inside me, into my chest and bubbling out my lips before I can stop it.

"Kind of a loaded question."

"As was yours, pet."

I glare at him, wishing more than ever that my hands were free. I'd love nothing more than to reach up and smack that smug look off his face. But since I don't have hands, I try with words.

"You're pathetic," I hiss, narrowing my gaze on him.

He laughs. "Am I now?"

It says it like it isn't a question, voice honeyed, mocking.

And there's that rage again.

"I don't know what it is you think you're going to get out of this, but whatever it is I hope it's worth it when you're bending over for some guy named Tiny at Cali State Prison."

I'm posturing. He knows it, too. He's looking at me in this thoughtful way that lets me know he sees right through me, and what he sees doesn't scare him at all.

I try again. "If its money you want, we don't have any."

He chuckles again and leans back in his seat, head tilted, eyeing me with interest.

"If it was money I wanted from you, luv, there are easier ways to get it."

Something in his words, the way he says them, makes my stomach twist.

"Or, maybe you're just really stupid." I attempt a shrug, which comes off more awkward than I want it to with my hands behind my back. "Just a thought."

"Trying to hurt my feelings, Buffy?" He purrs my name in the same way he did at dinner and, to my horror, it has much the same effect on me this time around as it did the previous.

I tamp down my self-disgust long enough to pin him with another hard glare. "I want an answer to my question."

He considers me for a moment, his expression half lost in shadow. Not being able to see his eyes wigs me in a way I can't explain.

"You want to know who I am." Again, it's not a question.

I don't respond, just wait in silence. Minutes tick by. In the dark, his expression half-hidden, I can just make out the ticking of his jaw.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is very quiet.

"Does it matter who I am?"

"Is your name really William Pratt?" I counter with a question of my own.

He laughs once, a harsh bark. "Bloody awful name, innit?"

I frown at him. "Is that a yes?"

"Name's Spike."

"Spike?" I blink at him, incredulous. A shrill laugh that doesn't sound like mine escapes before I can stop it. "William is 'bloody awful' but, what, Spike is…mysterious and sexy?"

He leans forward then, moonlight glinting off his bright hair, his dark eyes, cheekbones casting impossible shadows down the sides of his face. "Think it's sexy, do you?"

I tilt my chin up, trying my best to look down my nose at him.

"I think someone's overcompensating."

"Oh, pet," he croons, shifting his hips forward slightly and running one hand slowly down his stomach to bring it to rest at the waistband of his jeans. "I have nothing to compensate for, over or otherwise."

I feel the heat in my cheeks when I realize my eyes have followed the path of his hand and quickly look away.

"You're a pig, Spike."

It comes out with less force than I'd wanted, sounding too breathy.

"And William's a ponce." He shrugs, then smirks wickedly at me. "Was getting real bloody tired of running around like a prancin' lightweight. Feels good to be me again."

A thought occurs to me, and the anger I'd been feeding off dwindles a little in place of sudden panic. I shift away from him, pressing back into the cool glass of the passenger's side window behind me, trying to get as much distance as possible in the cramped car.

"Y-you're not like…schizophrenic are you?"

He laughs at that.

Not the laugh of a deranged psycho killer, but the kind of laugh that happens when you hear something that's honest-to-God funny and you just can't help yourself.

I don't know if it makes me feel better or worse.

"No," he says finally, wiping a tear away from his eye, his chest still heaving a little as his laughter fades. "'m not schizophrenic."

Well. That's good, I guess.

Satisfied with his seeming mental stability for the moment, I pause to consider him, taking in his appearance again, eyeing him up and down in a way I haven't yet allowed myself to do.

I can really see his face now, in the full light from the moon, with his hair smoothed entirely away from his brow. I take in the smooth lines of his skin, the sharp angles of his cheeks, the slight bend of his nose and follow the line down to his lips. The bottom one is fuller than the top, and it's twisted into that all-knowing smirk that's beginning to feel so eerily familiar.

The overall effect, the intensity that rolls off this man, is so completely unnerving that I find myself gaping, open mouthed at him.

"Cat got your tongue, pet?" His eyes twinkle at me.

It's criminal, how blue they are.

He's caught me staring at him, and his eyes flash, the predatory gleam is back. He looks...hungry.

I shake my head to clear it, trying to save face, then ask "If it's not money you want, then what the hell is it?"

He reaches over me with lightning quick speed, and before I know what he's doing, he's yanked me over so that my back is once again against the seat and my feet are on the floor.

Then he's buckling my seat belt across my lap.

He doesn't bother to buckle his own before putting the key in the ignition and giving it a sharp turn. He tosses me one last sidelong glance, providing me with a vague response before yanking hard on the steering wheel and sending the car hurtling onto the empty highway.

His words echo in my ears as I watch the night pass by out the windshield.

 _"You'll find out soon enough."_


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't get it."

My voice cuts through the silence, too loud to my ears. It seems to break through whatever thoughts have been keeping Spike occupied, because he glances sideways at me with a curious expression.

We've been driving for what seems like hours now, him tapping out a disjointed rhythm on the steering wheel and singing something low under his breath all the while. I have no idea where we are, nor any idea what time it is. The highway is dark and vacant, not a single pair of headlights in sight.

My shoulders have finally joined my hands with the being numb, my eyes burn from lack of sleep and unshed tears, and I feel equal parts confused, afraid and frustrated. This entire situation is just too damn surreal for me.

I think briefly that maybe if I close my eyes, I'll wake up at home, safe in my bed.

No such luck.

"Don't get what, pet?"

This time it's his voice that cuts through my thoughts. I let my head loll back against the seat, roll my neck so my eyes are facing toward his profile. I've yet to find a position that doesn't make me ache all over, but relaxing my neck helps a little.

"You. This. It doesn't make sense."

The corner of his mouth draws up in the smirk I'm beginning to recognize as his go-to facial expression. It's like he's keeping some big, funny secret from me.

It wigs me out.

"How you figure?" He asks, taking one hand off the wheel to dig around in his coat pocket. He pulls out a rumpled package of cigarettes and a lighter. He ignores my obvious look of disgust and proceeds to light one before stuffing both the lighter and package back into his pocket.

"You say you don't want money. That leaves, what, two other things you might want?" I manage a shrug, turning my gaze away from him to stare at the upholstered roof of the car. "You said there were easier ways to get my money, if that's what you wanted. Aren't there easier ways to...get... those other things, too?"

I don't know why I'm being so cavalier about this. Referring to what I'm beginning to think of as my imminent death. I guess there doesn't seem to be any reason not to talk about it. I wonder dimly if dad's realized that I'm missing by now. Since I don't know what time it is,I reason that there's every possibility that he's already called the cops.

There's a long bout of silence. Then I feel the car start to slow down, and cold fear grips me again as I realize we're pulling into the parking lot of a rather seedy looking motor inn. Spike pulls into a parking space the furthest away from the main office and the glowing light of it's safety, puts the car in park, and turns to face me.

"Let's put that pretty little head of yours at ease, yeah?" He takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly, blowing the smoke directly in my face. I sputter and cough, turning my head as far to the right as I can to escape the fumes. He continues, and I can hear the humor in his voice. "Got no interest in sullying your virtue, Goldilocks. I like my women dark and twisted, not simpering and virginal."

I whip my head back to him. "Hey! I'm not a-"

"And I'm not going to kill you."

He takes another drag and I stare at him, blinking.

I frown, considering what he's just said. Then- "Why not?"

He smirks at me around the cigarette, one scarred eyebrow raised. "Does it matter?"

I consider this for about 0.2 seconds before I start to scream at him.

"Of course it matters!" My voice is so shrill I'm surprised the windows don't shatter. "What the hell is this? Why go to the trouble of pretending to be someone you're not? Why take me out on dates?" I feel my eyes begin to burn, and I'm afraid I might start crying. "Why put so much damn time and….a-and effort into manipulating me? Into getting me to trust you?"

He shrugs, unconcerned. "Something I probably would have skipped out on if I could." He leans his head back against the seat, not looking at me. "Not really my style. I don't like mind games. I go where I like and I take what I want, everyone else be damned."

"And yet-"

"Yeah."

We both fall silent again. I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can, only opening them again once I'm sure the threat of tears has I speak next, my voice is stronger.

"Tell me why, Spike."

Another drag. Another long exhale. "Let's just say I'm under specific...orders."

I can't help the snort that escapes my lips at that.

"Funny. You don't seem the type to follow orders."

He shifts in his seat, almost as though I've made him...uncomfortable?

" 'm not, usually, but special circumstances and all that rot."

Special circumstances, huh? I harden my expression as I look at him. His eyes have met mine again. We stare each other down for another long moment.

"Tell me."

"You don't need to know."

"No, I deserve to know." I feel my resolve coming back now, fear of imminent death be damned. "I'm not an idiot, Spike. I've seen enough Dateline to know how this ends."

His eyes flash, and I can tell I'm starting to annoy him. "Already told you. I'm not goin' to kill you, Buffy."

I roll my eyes, laughing humorlessly. "Right. See me over here with the not believing you."

It happens before I can think.

He reaches over to me, cigarette forgotten, and wraps one large hand around my throat. He delves the other into my hair at the base of my neck, yanking my head back viciously.

"Listen here, you stupid bint." He growls, his face bare inches from mine, pulling just a little tighter on my hair. I can't hide my wince. "I've been told to deliver you one said anything about you being in one piece."

Okay. Now we're getting somewhere.

He let's go of me roughly and leans down to punch the buckle of my seat belt with much more force than necessary, gripping my arm to drag me across the seat toward him and yanking me out the driver's side door.

"Can you at least tell me what's in this for you?" I ask as he shoves me into the dimly lit motel room. He slams the door closed with his booted foot and tosses me unceremoniously onto the closer of the two queen beds. I land in an undignified heap, face down in the ratty comforter.

"No," he growls, and hear a thud as the drops the duffle bag he's brought in from the car by his feat. Then he's behind me, gripping my arms, twisting me around so that my back is against the comforter, my bound hands digging into me again.

Undeterred, I push on, hoping I can anger him enough to let slip more information.

"I'm assuming whoever's given you orders not to kill me probably also told you to keep your mouth shut, right?"

I fumble for something more to say as he turns angrily from me to march back toward the black duffle bag. I'm grasping at straws now, desperate to keep him talking. "Y-you said you hate mind games? But you did play mind games with me, Spike."

He stills, hunched over the bag on the floor.

I keep going.

"You could have just grabbed me off the street at any time if you wanted to," I remember how incredibly strong his arms had been when he'd dragged me through the restaurant, crushed the air from my lungs in the alley. "You made a game out of it, and I want to know why."

He growls and curses under his breath, standing up and whirling to face me again. "Do you ever bloody shut up?"

He's the picture of intimidation. Standing there, his jaw is ticking, his eyes dark. The long leather coat drapes his frame and makes his shoulders appear wider than they are. He seems to be fighting very hard for control. Of what, I'm not sure.

He's lethal and cold.

And gorgeous.

"Sorry," I snap, remembering myself. "Kidnapping tends to make me forget my manners."

In a flash he's back in front of me, fire in his eyes. A thrill of fear goes down my spine as he leans over me, putting a balled fist on either side of my head on the mattress. His hips just lightly press into mine, and I have to wonder if trying to provoke him is the smartest move to make.

But here I am, provoking girl. I refuse to back down from the challenge in his eyes, lifting my chin defiantly.

He considers me for a long while, and I watch the anger slowly slip from his face and turn to something more menacing. I'm not feeling so confident anymore.

"I'll make you a deal, Buffy," he coos softly. "If you promise to be a good little girl and do exactly as I say," he presses his hips more firmly against mine, runs one long finger down the curve of my neck and over my shoulder, stopping only once he hears my breathing hitch in my throat, "maybe I'll untie you so you don't have to sleep with your arms bent behind your back."

He stands up, and I glare daggers at him. He seems unphased.

"I'm going out," he says suddenly, turning away from me once more. "Get some necessities and what all." He turns to me again as he reaches the door. "Do try your best to behave while I'm away."

I watch him from my awkward position on the bed, doing my best to achieve what I hope is a righteously indignant expression. He blows me a mocking kiss before he opens the door, and then he's gone in a swirl of black leather and cigarette smoke, leaving me alone with jumbled thoughts and a traitorous body.

I wake with a start when I hear the motel door open and slam closed with a thud. I'm not sure what time it is when he returns to the motel room. It's still dark out, so I reason he can't have been gone for too long. Somewhere between the numbness in my shoulders and the burning of my eyes, I had succumbed to sleep while he was out.

I'm wide awake now, watching him with wide eyes, any hope I had held on to that this was just a dream gone.

He stumbles into the room, nearly colliding with the small TV stand across the room from the beds. He rights himself with a little effort, placing one hand on the TV stand for balance.

I close my eyes, intending to feign sleep, until the scent of something wafts over to me and I open them again.

I spot the greasy looking paper bag that he has clutched in one hand, and my stomach lets out a low, loud grumble.

I'm starving.

The scent of grease and meat and deep fried potato that normally makes my stomach churn is smelling like heaven right about now, and despite my better judgement, I decide to tempt fate.

"Um, Spike?"

He turns to look at me. For a second, I think maybe he's forgotten all about me. Then a wide smile splits his face. "Well well, little Buffy." He staggers toward me, dropping down on the mattress next to my hip. He leans one arm over me, propping himself up on his knuckle. "Didja miss me?"

He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, and another, earthier scent that's familiar but one I can't quite place. Metallic, almost like copper.

I offer him a very small, cautious smile and hope he doesn't see through it. "I-is that food...for me?"

He looks confused, narrowing his eyes at me. I gesture with a nod of my head to the crumpled paper bag in his hand, and his brow smooths with understanding.

His smile falters.

"Oh, right. Yeah." He places the bag down next to me on the bed. "S'fer you. Tuck in."

I look down at the bag, then back up to him. I have to fight hard to keep the saccharine smile on my face.

"I'd love to," I say sweetly. "But I'm a little...tied up at the moment."

He frowns again, this time in what looks like concern, and the expression is so endearing and boyish and so...so...William and I feel my heart clench hard in my chest. I take a deep breath in and exhale through my nose.

This man isn't William.

William doesn't exist.

Spike stands up on wobbly legs and turns from me, weaving back toward the black duffle. He rummages through it for a minute before emerging with a very nasty looking knife. I gulp. There's no way, even if he wasn't drunk, that he could cut the fishing line from my wrists without cutting me in the process. The knife is too big.

I panic as he approaches me with the blade.

"Spike, wait-"

But it's too late now. He's flipping me over, bringing my bound wrists up higher so he can see them. I feel a slight tugging, some pressure, and then my wrists come free and my arms rest limply at my sides.

I flip back over, bringing them in front of me to survey the damage. I have several deep, bloodied lines criss-crossing over my wrists where the fishing line dug into my skin, but no damage from the knife blade. My fingers tingle as blood rushes back into them, and I rub absently at one wrist, then the other, my face twisted in pain.

Spike watches me for a moment before moving away. "Now then, eat up."

I reach over and pull the fast food bag into my lap, pulling out the soggy french fries and devouring them in a very un-ladylike way. I take two bites of the burger before deciding I've had enough, place it back in the bag and set the bag down beside me on the floor.

I turn my attention back to my damaged wrists, wishing I had some antiseptic.

All the while, Spike watches me from the small arm chair across the room, a far away look on his face.

I tend to my wounds in silence.

"Right then," he says finally, standing up and approaching me again, a roll of duct tape in hand. "Put your hands together, out in front of you."

I blink up at him. "What?"

He doesn't wait for me to understand. Instead, he reaches out and grabs first one wrist and then the other, holding them together in one large hand while wrapping the duct tape quickly and violently around them.

Once he's satisfied, he drops my bound wrists into my lap. The sticky tape rubs and burns against the fishing line injuries, and I grit my teeth in pain.

He bends down to repeat the actions on my legs, binding them together at the ankle with the duct tape and dropping them down to the mattress.

"Get some kip," he orders, settling himself down on top of the comforter of the opposite bed. "We're leaving at sun down."

I lie awake for a long while after that, watching the sunlight drift in underneath the heavy curtains. Feeling certain that dad has notified someone of my missing person's case by now, and trying hard not to think about the people and orders Spike seems to be following, I drift into a fitful sleep.

I have nightmares of glowing gold eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

"Rise and shine, sweetbreads."

I open my eyes dazedly, taking in my surroundings. It takes me a minute to orient myself, adjusting to the darkened interior of the room.

I'm surprised to find that I'm only a little disappointed when I realize I'm still on top of the ratty motel room bed, both my hands and feet bound in duct tape and my pretty lace dress wrinkled.

This is actually preferable to my nightmares.

Across the room, I can see the light in the bathroom is on, and that's where Spike's voice is coming from now.

"We should be off in the next hour or so," he's saying, stepping out from behind the partition, towel drying his hair as he steps into the bedroom. He's wearing his tight black jeans, unbuttoned and riding low at his waist, and nothing else.

I stare dumbly as a droplet of water, no doubt left over from his shower, follows the curving path of his right pec, down the side of his stomach and on past the perfect V of his hip bone.

Whoa.

He's saying something to me. I should try to pay attention. I tear my eyes away from his waist and try to focus on his face, promptly getting distracted by his lips.

I shake my head, trying to clear it of the traitorous thoughts.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask.

He smirks at me.

"Do you want to clean up, luv? Still a little hot water left, I'm sure."

I consider this for a moment before looking down, taking in my bound wrists, bound ankles and rumpled dress again.

I frown.

"I, uh...I don't have anything to change into...after."

He shrugs, tossing the towel he's been using to dry his hair off handedly towards me. It hits me in the face and I sputter indignantly, watching him walk around me and over to the small desk and chair where he's left his clothes from the day before.

"Suit yourself." He yanks his black t-shirt off the chair back and throws it on.

"I didn't say no," I snap at him. "Just, kinda gross. Wearing the same thing more than one day in a row." I raise one eyebrow mockingly as he turns back to me. "Though, you don't seem to have a real problem with it."

He ignores my jibe. "Next time we stop, I'll go out and pick some kit up for you." He sniffs absently, turning to look out the window. The sun is just starting to go down from what light I can see underneath the curtains. "Won't travel so far tonight."

I heave a sigh. I'm starting to get really fed up with the crypto boy routine.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, rolling my shoulders. I try my best for nonchalant.

"Right. So we're...what, road tripping buddies now? Wanna fill me in on where we're heading?"

He gives me a look, like I'm supposed to know where it is we're going already.

"Gonna guess it's not Wally World…"

He smirks appreciatively at me. "Close."

"Six Flags?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "Very funny."

This is an odd exchange. True, I'm intentionally being glib, but it's not like I know anything about well, anything at this point. But he's clearly not in a sharing mood, and I'm kicking myself for not taking advantage of his drunken state the night before.

"If you're wanting to shower, you better get to it. I want to get back on the road."

I glare at him and then drop my head pointedly, taking in my appearance.

"Right, I'll get right on that."

He rolls his eyes at me, huffing dramatically. In a flash he's there, on his knees before me, the scary looking knife from the night before in his hand. He lifts my bound feet and roughly hacks through the layers of duct tape around them.

"There you are, princess." He stands up and gestures with a gallant sweep of his hand toward the open bathroom door. "Think you manage the rest?" He drops his voice to a low rumble. "I suppose I could be bothered to help you out of that dress."

His tongue curls suggestively up behind his teeth.

I stand, keeping my glaring eyes locked on his, unwilling to allow him to keep looking down on me. I thrust my still bound wrists out in front of me expectantly, intentionally driving them into his stomach.

He huffs a little with the impact, but the sound is more mocking than pained. His eyes are bright as he leers down at me. "Like it rough, do you?"

His words hit me somewhere low in my belly, my muscles tightening. A thought occurs to me, and I can't believe I haven't considered this before.

I give him my best coy smile, batting my eyelashes. Spike isn't much taller than me, though our height difference is highlighted now that I've lost both my heels. Still, all I have to do is raise my chin a couple inches and then his lips are bare centimeters from mine. I watch him watching me, the gleam in his eyes fading into something else as I drag my own eyes deliberately down to his lips and back up again.

I part my lips as though to say something, and feel a puff of air across them as he parts his in turn.

Without warning, I bring my bound wrists up together as fast and hard as I can, bending my knees a little for maximum impact. They slam into the underside of his jaw, his neck snapping back with a satisfying crack, and I take the opportunity to bolt toward the motel room door.

He's too fast. I've just barely closed my fingers around the door knob when I feel him, his steel arms banding around my waist and my arms and yanking me back hard to his chest. I struggle in his grasp as best I can, thrashing my head from side to side, trying to catch him in the chin again.  
"Bloody hell, will you...stop...squirmin'?"

He wrestles me away from the door, then slams me down face first onto my mattress. He flips me over, pins me beneath his powerful hips and grips both my bound wrists tight over my head in one hand.

"Clever girl," he murmurs with something that might be admiration. "Not quite clever enough."

I struggle in his grasp, but he's much too strong. "Let...me...go, you stupid...son...of a...bitch!" I'm out of breath, huffing and puffing beneath his solid weight. It barely looks like he has to try at all to keep me pinned down.

"Oh, Buffy, you wound me." He coos mockingly.

He leans over me, keeping my wrists and hips firmly pinned beneath him, and pulls his cigarettes and lighter out of his coat pocket that he'd previously discarded on the side of the bed. I attempt to buck him off when he places the cigarette in his mouth and lights it, but it's no use.

"You're disgusting," I hiss through clenched teeth.

He takes a deep drag off the cigarette, rumbling a low chuckle when he exhales. "Am I, now?" He shifts slightly, his legs coming to either side of my body, effectively straddling my waist. I shudder convulsively beneath him, and hate myself for it. "Not the way it smells from here, luv."

I stop struggling as his words register.

"Whassat now?"

He rolls his eyes at me again, managing to look both annoyed and a little offended. He takes another drag, leaning down toward me. For a minute I think he's going to exhale into my face again, but he turns at the last second. I watch the streams of smoke exit out his lips and nose, swirling up to disappear against the white of the far fall.

When he turns his face back to me, his pupils are dilated so far that his eyes look black, the storm blue just a thin line on the outer edges. He looks at me a moment longer before dipping his head so his lips brush against my ear, his voice silken.

"Don't think for one second that I don't know exactly the effect I have on you."

Then, so quickly I'm not even sure what's happening, he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and presses the burning tip to the side of my neck.

I cry out in pain and he clamps his hand down over my mouth, exerting just enough pressure to hurt.

"Try a stunt like that again," he breathes, eyes deadly and dark. "and I'll make you my personal ashtray."

I whimper against his hand, the small burn on my neck throbbing as he removes the cigarette and tosses it aside.

When he finally releases my mouth I can't help the next words from escaping.

"You're a sick bastard." But the acidity is lessened considerably by the growing lump in my throat.

He's still leaning over me, still pressing his body into mine. He regards me with his cool blue eyes for a long moment, then bends down to delicately trace the cigarette burn with the pointed tip of his cold tongue.

The cooling effect is instantaneous, the burning pain receding and leaving the small point of contact numb.

He pulls away from me, bracing his hands on either side of my head as he looks down at me, expression unreadable.

"I know."

"So," I start when I can't take the silence anymore, "gonna tell me what the deal is with the only traveling at night?"

He glances at me, one eyebrow raised, probably surprised that I'm the one to break the silence after the incident back at the motel.

We haven't done much, or any, talking during this particular league of the trip.

After he'd crudely bandaged the burn on my neck, he'd tossed me a convenience store power bar and ordered me to follow him out to the car, claiming I'd lost my shower privileges for the night.

So I've been sitting here for the past couple hours, watching him out of the corner of my eye and trying hard to get a read on him.

It's not hard at all, I've realized, thinking of him simply as Spike. Whatever reason he had in the beginning, whatever purpose he'd had that playing "William" had satisfied, feels far away to me now. Oh, I still intend to get answers, but for now I'm content to leave that particular bit be for now in favor of determining who it is Spike's working for, and what it is they want with me.

Thoughts regarding Spike and William, however, prove to be more irritating and harder to shake than the man in question. Despite my attempts to focus on more important things, like how to get myself out of this mess, Spike and his odd William-like tendencies take up residence at the forefront of my mind and, try as I might, I can't seem to shake them. What kind of psychopath am I dealing with?

He's tied me up, blindfolded me, blew cigarette smoke in my face...only to turn around and bring me food when I hadn't asked for it, to untie me and allow me to feed myself, to treat the wounds on my wrist.

One of these things is not like the others…

He'd been nearly friendly this morning, offering me the chance to shower, saying he'd go out and buy me new clothes. I'd been the one to look that gift horse in the mouth with my botched and severely misguided escape attempt.

But it's the last incident, the struggle on the bed before we left, that has me the most perplexed. I know that my hit to his jaw had upset him, but he hadn't seemed all that mad initially. It didn't even look like it had hurt him.

The whole confrontation doesn't make sense. One second we're almost bantering, his eyes dancing with mirth, and the next he's using me as a human ashtray.

But afterward….afterward, he'd taken the time to cool the small wound, albeit a little creepily, but he'd also cleaned it, bandaged it up.

I frown deeply, considering this for the hundredth time tonight.I suppose there's every chance it merely has something to do with him being told to bring me in alive...but even then, he said I didn't have to be in "one piece" when he'd threatened me the night before...

"Should think it'd be obvious to you."

I jump, his voice bringing me out of my thoughts. I turn my head to face him, eyes wide, trying to remember what it is that I'd asked him.

"What's obvious?"

He rolls his eyes. "Why we only travel at night."

Oh. That.

I watch his profile, considering. Why should it be obvious to me?

"Are you allergic to the sun?" I ask then, genuinely curious.

I'd never seen Spike around during the day when he'd been masquerading as William, and he was always so very pale. When I'd thought William was just a shy sort of nerd I hadn't thought much of it. But Spike...Spike seems the type to rush down an open highway on a motorcycle in the middle of the day, the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair.

Which isn't an appealing image at all.

"Allergic to the sun?" He asks me, his tone incredulous.

I frown at him.

"Yeah." I say. "It's a thing."

He scoffs. "You aren't serious."

"What, about the sun thing? Or wanting to know why we travel at night, like fugitives? Oh, wait..." I pin him with a hard look.

"' 'M not a fugitive, Buffy. And I'm not 'allergic' to the sun." He glances at me again, a weird look on his face. There's a long pause."Oh, c'mon luv, don't be daft."

I just continue to frown at him, confused.

"How much did your dad tell you?"

"What does you having an aversion to the sun have to do with my dad?"

He's looking at me now as though I've sprouted two heads.

Another long pause.

"He really didn't tell you anything, did he? Bloody hell."

I feel my heart rate start to pick up. "Spike, what are you talking about?"

"What do you know about the magicks?"

"The...magic? Like...like what, David Copperfield?"

"Magicks, luv. The supernatural. Witchcraft. Demons." He eyes me surreptitiously, looking frustrated. "Vampires?"

I blink at him, taken aback. I have no idea where any of this is going, and even less idea how this relates to me and my dad, and my having been kidnapped.

"Umm, I know they're...I mean, I know it's...not real?"

Spike groans. "Bloody buggering fuck."

He grips the steering wheel and pulls hard, sending us flying to the edge of the road. He slams on the breaks, puts the car in park and whirls in his seat to face me.

"What did your dad tell you about your mum? About why he moved you to California?"

I look at him, trying to understand what all these questions have in common, racking my brain for an answer. What had dad said? It's been such a long time….and Spike is looking at me with this intense expression, his eyes are so blue.

"Um, h-he said...that mom left." I stammer out, thinking fast. I stare at my bound wrists in my lap. "She just...left one day. A-and then we moved...we moved because he got a job offer….he said it was his dream job, that he couldn't not take it."

Spike is nodding his head, looking more and more frustrated by the second.

"And…?" he pauses, waiting for me to continue. I just shake my head. "that's it?"

"That's all he said. He's worked for PTB since...since I can remember. He's the one who asked me to get my degree in chemical engineering, s-so I could work with him, live at home."

Spike frowns at me.

"It never struck you as odd, how overprotective your dad was?"

This gives me pause.

"How do you know he was overprotective?"

Spike rolls his eyes, growing angry. "Besides what you just told me? I staked you out for weeks, Buffy. Use that big, beautiful brain of yours, yeah? You think the only time I was around was when you saw me?" He pauses meaningfully. "When I let you see me?"

I shudder at the thought, and my brain rushes back to the question of why, but Spike doesn't give me time to consider it.

"In all this time, your dad's never said a thing to you about what really happened to your mum?" His voice is louder now, verging on a roar. "About leaving New York? About bloody Wolfram and Hart?"

My vacant look must be all the answer he needs, because he's laughing now. Almost hysterically so.

I let him laugh for a moment, just watching as he dissolves in fits of mirth.

"Spike?" I finally ask, my voice very small.

"Oh, this is bloody priceless." Spike shakes his head, humorless laughter still rumbling from his lips.

I continue to stare at him, feeling more and more confused and idiotic by the second.

"Right," He says finally, growing serious again. "So you know...absolutely nothing, is that about the size of it?"

I nod, unsure of what else to do. I wish my hands were free so I could fiddle with my hair or something, anything other than sit here like a lump.

"Let's start from the top then, shall we?"

I nod again, this time more urgently, suddenly relieved, thinking that I'll finally, finally get some answers and start figuring my way out of this God forsaken mess I'm in.

I look at him expectantly. I'm sure my eyes are round as saucers.

"Buffy," he begins, his face serious, but his voice almost mockingly condescending."Pet."

He reaches across the distance between us and I all but jump when he places one cool hand over my bound ones in my lap. There's a final pregnant pause. I search his eyes hard, but they're flashing with something bordering on sinister and the air between us is so thin and I feel suddenly very sick to my stomach.

And then he speaks again, and I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

"I'm a vampire."


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh."

His scarred eyebrow arches sky high. "Oh?"

I look at him, a small, amused smile starting to twist the corners of my lips.

"You got me."

"I did." Not a question, but his brow is furrowed.

I nod.

"Ya know, I was worried there for a second." I poke him lightly in the chest, a weird sort of half-laugh coming from my lips out of nowhere. "Thinking you were just your average run-of-the-mill psycho stalker." My voice is getting higher. "Turns out, I've been road tripping with Dracula! Boy, is _my_ face red."

"Buffy—"

"No, no, this is good. Really. I feel so much better now." I've hit a fever pitch, my voice coming out high and fast. "Can I call you Drac, or do you prefer Prince of Darkness?"

He's not finding this as funny as I am.

"You'd do well to remember who you're dealing with, little girl."

"Prince of Darkness it is."

He growls low in his throat, eyes flashing. "Don't lump me in with that bloody poofter."

And then I burst out laughing, uncontrollable, hysterical giggles escaping my lips. I try and hold them in, but they burst out with a sputter.

 _Look at me, I'm giggle girl._

I don't know what's funnier, that he seems to think Dracula is real, or the fact that he seems genuinely insulted by my teasing.

"Whatsa matter Spike, can't take a joke?"

His voice is dangerously low. "This is hardly a joke, luv."

"Yeah, it is. And Buffy's the punchline." I stop laughing abruptly, my face turning serious. "This has got to be... the lamest, most absurd trick that anyone has _ever_ tried to pull on me. I mean, are there cameras? 'Hey everyone, look at stupid Buffy! Thinking she's been kidnapped by a _vampire_.'" I start to frantically yank my wrists apart, pulling hard at the duct tape. "The bondage was a nice touch."

Beside me, Spike is heaving in deep, angry breaths. In through his mouth and out through his nose, like a bull. I ignore him, continuing to work at the bindings on my wrists. When it becomes clear to me I'm not getting anywhere, I give up with a huff.

I muster all the venom I can and turn to glare at him. "Joke's over, bleach boy. I wanna go home. Now."

He doesn't move, just stares at me.

"No."

"Listen, Count Chocula—"

"You're off your _nut_."

I pull back, blinking at him. "I'm off my what now?"

He ignores me, his face hard.

"I wanna go home, she says. Like we've just been off for a jaunt the past few days?" He sneers at me. "You forget who I am, pet?"

"What?" I sputter, furious. "How can I forget when I don't _know_!"

"You think I'll just let you walk away? That this was for a laugh?" He shakes his head, clucking his tongue. "Not how this works, Goldilocks."

He grabs one of my wrists where the tape is wrapped tightest, his grip bruising. "I'm a _vampire,_ yeah? You— you're food. You're _nothing_." His nostrils flare, grip tightening. "The only reason you're still alive is because I'm _allowing_ it."

His words hit me hard. It's way too wiggy, how much he means them. His face is cold, a storm raging in the blue of his narrowed eyes.

In this moment, I can believe it. That he's a monster, not a man.

"You're only alive because right now, I need you. I'm gonna get what's mine."

I narrow my eyes back at him, issuing a challenge I'm not sure I can meet.

"Why should I help you?"

The barest flick of his wrist, and I think he may have broken mine.

I gasp, my eyes filling with tears.

"You don't have a choice."

I ignore the pain in my wrist as best I can, yanking my arms away from him and out of his grip. I keep my eyes glued to his, even though I know he'll probably be able to see the lie I'm about to tell.

"I'm not afraid of you."

He smirks at me.

"Your blood's singin' a different tune, luv."

 _Ugh._

I glare at him, disgusted. "Okay, with the _ew_."

He leers suggestively at me.

"No! You don't get to _do_ that! With the cryptic talk and the violence and….a-and the wanting me to fall apart just because you threaten to go all fangy and 'grr'!"

I shift as far back on the bench seat as I can, chest heaving. I point a finger from my good hand at him. "You...you're _pathetic_. Delusional, even. _I'm_ nothing? Look at you, you idiot!"

This is the way wrong thing to say.

"Right pet," he growls, leaning towards me, "let's take a good look at me."

I watch in mute horror as the bones in his face shift. His eyebrows disappear into the deep ridges down his forehead, canines elongated to deadly points, eyes flashing yellow. His demonic visage shocks me into silence, frozen to my seat, the entire transformation taking barely a second.

It's his eyes that I can't look away from. The golden glow, the feral rage. The same as in the alley.

It's the same as my nightmares.

"Oh, I see." He chuckles at my stunned speechlessness, the sound cruelly distorted around his fangs. "You think you're so big and brave? You think you've seen the worst of me? Newsflash, blondie— you haven't seen anything."

And he lunges at me.

I open my mouth and scream, bringing my hands up defensively in front of me, but I'm not fast enough. He's on me in an instant, gripping my arms and hauling me against him. I'm trembling in his arms, every trace of bravado leeched from my body with the knowledge that this…this is real.

I have my hands braced against his chest, pushing at him as hard as I can, straining away from him. My heart is pounding in my chest, hammering so hard I feel like it might break through.

And then he buries his fangs in my throat, just above where my neck meets the curve of my shoulder. The bite is cruel and jagged as he tears into my skin, clutching me to him. My mouth opens wide to scream, but the only sounds that escape are hushed, choked whimpers.

He closes his lips around the wound, taking deep, hearty pulls of my blood. My head gets lighter with each surge, my vision blurring, eyelids fluttering closed.

This is it. This is what the end feels like.

I wait for my life to flash before my eyes, but it doesn't come.

Instead, I find myself thinking of my mom. I haven't thought about her in years, but now she's all I can see. Her face, her smile, the feel of her hands, how soft her hair felt in my fingers when she used to let me brush it.

How much I miss her. How desperately I wish she could be here now.

The single whispered word is so faint that I barely register that I've spoken.

"Mommy."

I feel Spike pull away from me, his cool tongue running back and forth over the twin puncture wounds he's left behind. It's the same way he treated the cigarette burn before.

I don't think he's taken enough blood to kill me, but why? I try to open my eyes, to ask him what he's waiting for, but can't. My arms and legs are jell-o, my head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds where it's resting against his chest

I dimly feel him pushing me away from him. I slump limply back into the passenger side of the car, my head finding the cool of the window a little too hard.

Then we're moving again, the car jerking onto the highway, and everything goes black.


	6. Chapter 6

When I come to, the first thing I notice is that I'm on top of a lumpy mattress in what looks like another dumpy motel room.

The second thing I notice is that my hands are no longer bound.

My left wrist is bruised and swollen, but I can flex it when I try so I figure it isn't broken.

Thank God for small favors.

I have no idea how long I've been out for, but everything hurts. I push myself into a sitting position, wincing a little. I look down at my clothes and realize with a mix of confusion—and something else that's a little bit stomach churning—that I'm no longer wearing my black dress. Instead, I have on a loose fitting pair of comfy grey sweats and the black camisole I've been wearing under the dress.

"There she is."

I look up.

Spike's sitting across from me, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He's grinning at me, looking a whole lot like he should have yellow feathers stuck in his teeth.

Those teeth...

"Oh!" My hand flies up to my neck, feeling for the twin wounds I know I'll find there. "You bit me!"

He nods, takes swig of the whiskey. "I did."

My mouth falls open. I shut it, then let it open again. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Vampire." He shrugs, as if that explains everything.

Which, I guess it does.

 _Except…_ "You didn't kill me."

He snorts, shaking his head. "Can't rightly kill you, luv. Not when you bein' a pulser is the only thing securing my…" He trails off, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Had to find some way to shut you up, yeah? Calm you down." He shrugs, placing the cigarette back in his mouth "Found a way that gets me a little something outta the deal, is all."

Oh, _ew._

I wrinkle my nose. "I'm not your vamp keg, Spike."

"Kind of are."

I glare at him, my hand going to shield my neck reflexively, but there's not much I can say to refute him.

Not after what happened in the car.

"Besides," he continues, exhaling a long stream of curling smoke. "Lots more effective than that poncy drug I used at the restaurant." He winks. "More fun, too."

"Maybe for you."

He shrugs again, looking so casual. "Still have some of the other, if you prefer the debilitating nausea and dizziness."

"Not seeing a big difference between the two." I snark, fingering the wounds lightly again. They're already scabbing over, but my head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and there's definitely no way I could eat anything and keep it down right now.

I lower my hand and turn my attention down to my new clothes again, fingering the soft material of the sweatpants with my good hand, frowning. "You changed my clothes."

He ignores my observation, sets the whiskey bottle down and gestures toward the nightstand beside me. "Drink that, it'll help."

I raise an eyebrow at him, turn to see what he's talking about. There's a small plastic bottle of orange juice sitting on the nightstand.

Because _that_ makes sense.

"And you care, why?" I ask bitterly, but reach for the juice anyway. My limbs still feel all jiggly, and he's right, the juice will help.

"Don't. But the wankers that sent me do."

I take a small sip. "And why's that?"

"Dunno exactly. Bit above my pay grade, yeah?"

"You're a vampire," I say, surprised how the word feels normal on my tongue. "what do you need money for? Don't you just sort of…kill and take what you want?"

"Figure of speech."

I nod, taking another sip of juice. "So...you're a vampire errand boy."

He growls at me, flicking the tip of his cigarette.

"I only know what they tell me. Whatever the reason, must be important." He stands up, eyeing me up and down. "They've got their sights set on you, luv. These lot aren't the type to just give up, either. You think I'm the only Big Bad they propositioned? Trust me, there would have been others. You could do a lot worse than me."

"Kinda doubt that." I mumble, tracing a finger over the big blue bruise on my wrist.

"Might as well get used to it, pet. Stuck with me for awhile."

I shake my head, more at myself than him.

"There's still my dad. He must know by now—"

"Not coming, pet." He cuts me off. "Not if he knows what's good for him."

I scoff, eyebrows raised. "Ego much?"

"Not me, you twit. Them." He emphasizes the last word with a hard point toward the far right wall.

Them. They. The nameless, faceless nasties who hire vampires and are currently jonesing real hard for Buffy Summers. Whoever these people are, they have to be powerful. If what Spike's saying is true...if they can keep someone, something like him on a leash, if they can keep the man who's raised me, protected me, all my life from coming for me…

But he's a vampire. A demon. A liar.

What does he know?

"I don't believe you," I say, then pause. "About my dad."

Because I kinda do believe him about the rest.

"Believe whatever you like, pet. Makes no difference to me. But your dad's a right smart sod, certain he's figured it out by now. Knows better than to tangle with Wolfram and Hart."

 _Be kind, rewind._

"Wolfram and Hart?"

He waves his hand absently. "Law firm, of the evil variety. Buncha wankers."

 _Okay, one more time._

"An evil law firm?"

"Well, yeah." He says it like I've just told him one and one equal two, then begins pacing. "Who do you think sent me to Sunnyhell in the first place? Wanted me to follow you round for weeks? Had to make sure you were the chit they were looking for, right? Needed validation and what all." He pauses, a discerning look on his face. "Not supposed to be telling you this, o'course."

"Then why are you?"

He smirks at me. "Dunno. Maybe I figure I took enough blood you might not remember much."

I'm too stuck on this whole evil law firm business to really consider the creep factor of what he's just said.

And isn't calling it an evil law firm kind of redundant?

"Wouldn't they know if it was me or not pretty quickly?" I ask. "I mean…how many Buffy Summers are there in California?"

Spike pauses again in his pacing and looks at me, a sly grin on his face.

"Weren't lookin' for Buffy Summers, were they? Your dad changed your names when he moved you west, used some sort of cloaking spell to cover his tracks, among other things. Made it right difficult for those sods to track you."

A cloaking spell?

I think of my dad, of the work he does. How secretive he's always been, demanded that I be, too. I wonder now if it was the nature of the work he was hiding, or something else entirely. It's clear to me that he thought he was protecting me from something, or someone.

Wolfram and Hart.

Any way you slice it, it's majorly wiggy.

I turn my eyes down to the bedspread, tracing little patterns in it with my index finger. Instead of feeling like I'm getting answers, I have about a million more questions. I want to ask them all at once, but I don't know how long my resident vamp is going to be playing at Chatty Cathy, especially once he realizes I'm not as with the out of it as he seems to think I am.

"Who were they looking for?" I ask, biting my bottom lip.

He barks a laugh. "You, you silly bint. Are you brain dead?"

I raise my eyes to his, my turn to give him the "you're a complete moron" look. He has the decency to look sheepish.

"Oh, right." he clears his throat in that awkward way again. "Elizabeth Manners."

The name is familiar. I get this weird feeling that it isn't just because it's mine.

"Took your mum's maiden name. Summers." He takes a drag off his cigarette, exhales slowly. "Not the smartest move, if you ask me."

It's silent for a minute, both of us sort of lost in thought.

"What really happened to my mom, Spike?" I ask, looking down again.

I wait for his response. I don't know why I'm placing so much trust in him to give me answers, or to be honest with me when and if he does.

And do I even want to know? I've lived practically my whole life without mom. Thinking that she'd just up and walked out on us one day. It hadn't seemed like much of stretch, she was never around all that much to begin with.

I'd hated her a little for that.

Will changing the story now really make a difference?

And what if she's dead? Is that better or worse?

"Don't know the details," he says.

I force myself to make eye contact with him, and I can kind of tell he's lying. The way he says it makes me think she's probably dead.

It makes it worse.

I place the half empty orange juice bottle on the nightstand and bring my legs up to sit criss cross on the bed. Spike's holding eye contact with me. I search his eyes for a moment, wondering what it is that I'm seeing there.

"Was it a vampire?"

A strange look I haven't seen before passes over his face after I ask. It isn't kind, but it isn't cold either. He holds my gaze, the dim lamp light casting shadows across his face, neither of us moving. Finally, I can't stomach the intensity of the moment and have to look away.

It feels a little like he's answered me by not answering.

"Tired?" he asks me after a minute.

Guess show and tell's over.

"What time is it?"

"Half hour til sunrise, give or take."

I almost ask him how he could possibly know that, but remember before I can.

 _Vampire._

I let my head drop, rubbing my burning eyes with the heels of my hands. Everything makes a whole lot of sense and absolutely no sense, all at the same time.

Vampires are real.

I'm traveling with one.

He's bringing me with him to an evil law firm, using me as some kind of...collateral?

And somehow, all of this feels like it point back to my parents.

I want to ask Spike more about my mom, get him to tell me the truth about what happened to her, but the way he's avoided answering my last question makes me think that particular subject's closed for the night.

I look up again.

"Spike?" I catch him in mid-swig from his whiskey bottle. I wait for him to swallow before continuing. "Is that why you pretended to be William? To find out if Buffy Summers was really Elizabeth Manners, I mean."

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gives me a small nod. At some point he's lost the cigarette he'd been smoking earlier.

"Something like that, yeah."

I guess that kind of makes sense. My head is still a little fuzzy.

Spike may have been right about me not remembering a whole lot of this.

But I want to know. "Why William, though? You could have been a plenty efficient Buffy stalker just...being Spike." I gesture at him with one hand. "Probably better, what with the goth look and all."

"It's punk, not goth." He takes another swig. "And I wasn't stalking, luv. Needed to do my research, find out things from you I couldn't have just from lurkin' about and peekin' in your underwear drawer." He waggles his eyebrows. "Not that I didn't do some of that, too."

"Oh, gross, Spike!"

"Bottom line? _William_ ," he practically spits the name out, " inspires trust. All that poncy stammering and nancy boy hair. Wanker's sweeter'n bloody rainbows and puppy dogs, innit he?" He laughs humorlessly, pointing back at his chest using the liquor bottle. "Picture me comin' up to you on the street, yeah?" He takes one lithe step toward me, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "You gonna share all your dark and dirties with me, Buffy?" Another step. "Answer all my questions about your work?" And another. "About your family?"

He's about a foot away from me now. Standing there looking down at me with dark eyes, draped in black leather, looking every inch the predator I now know he is.  
"You gonna open up to me, pet?" he purrs, taking the final step to close the distance between us. His knees brush the side of the mattress beside me.

I have to crane my neck back to look at him, he's so close. I can smell the aged leather of his coat, the unique scent it makes mixing with the cigarette smoke and sweet whiskey.

He's right. I never would have let someone like Spike come near me, on the street or otherwise. Dad would never have allowed it, even if I'd wanted him to.

The creature before me reeks of something dangerous, virile and hungry. Something violent and feral lurks so close to the surface that it makes his skin vibrate. I study his face—the cheekbones, the full lips, the too-blue eyes—and realize what I'm seeing is an illusion.

Not his real face, but a mask hiding the monster underneath.

"When did you start looking for me?" I ask softly.

His stance relaxes the smallest bit. "About five months ago, one of the higher ups figured out your dad had stashed you in California. Weren't sure where exactly, but they had an idea." He waves his hand absently, as though none of this really matters, and rattles the next part off quickly. "Sought me out, made me a deal, gave me a list o' names. Blah, blah, blah."

I frown. List of names?

This doesn't make any sense.

Except, it does.

Wolfram and Hart hadn't known exactly who they were looking for, what new name to look under. Spike said they had a general idea of where I was, not who. There had to have been tons of potential "Elizabeth Manners" living in the area of California they'd sent him to look.

Almost any girl my age, living in the vicinity, raised by a single dad...

"How many names?"

He looks a little baffled by my question.

"How many?" He frowns, thinking it over. "Don't remember really. Two dozen? Maybe more."

Two dozen. Two dozen other girls.

"Did you spend three weeks with all of them?"

I try to do the math in my head.

He snorts, shaking his head. "Wadn't gonna waste my time, was I? Knew what I was looking for. Most of 'em I could tell right quick weren't you."

I want to ask him how, but he'll probably just give me some ultra creepy vampire reason.

I'm not sure I can stomach that right now.

"What happened to them?"

Even I don't understand the significance of why I'm asking until the question's already left my mouth.

The truth of what I'm really asking hangs in the air between us.

 _Are they dead?_

 _Did you kill them?_

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. His words from earlier in the car float back to me, and I shiver.

 _"_ _You're only alive because right now, I need you."_

Neither of us moves for a long while. I'm still staring at him when he tilts his head back and finishes off the Jack Daniels in two long pulls, setting it down sloppily on the nightstand next to my orange juice.

He doesn't look at me as he shrugs off his duster, removes the black t-shirt and switches off the lamp before collapsing onto the opposite bed.

"Go to sleep, Buffy."

But I can't.

I sit in the dark and think of all the innocent girls that are dead because of me.

It isn't until just before I drift to sleep that I realize Spike hasn't bothered to bind my hands or legs.

Was he so drunk that he'd forgotten? I rack my brain. He didn't seem drunk, but he drank the entire bottle of whiskey. I mean, yeah, vampire and everything...but surely alcohol still makes your decision making skills go wonky?

I turn my head to look at him. He's lying on top of the covers, arms splayed to the side. His head is facing me, but from where I am I can see the rapid movements of his eyes beneath the lids.

Dreaming.

What do vampires dream about, anyway?

Maybe I don't want to know.

Very carefully, I sit up and move my legs around to place my feet on the floor. I wince when the shifting causes the mattress to squeak. My eyes fly back to Spike.

Still asleep. He mumbles something incoherent and lifts one hand to bat at his nose, like it itches. But then he stills again, and I know I have to move. Now.

I get up as quickly and quietly as I can, padding barefoot through the small motel room. I reach the door and wrap my fingers around the handle, pausing just long enough to toss one more glance behind me, half expecting to see two blue eyes looking back.

Nope. Still sleeping.

I release the breath I've been holding and yank the door open, stepping out into the light of the rising sun. I let it fall shut behind me with a thud and take off at a run.

I get about five strides into the parking lot before I stop.

I'm standing like an idiot in the parking lot of a seedy roadside motel, wearing nothing but a thin camisole and oversized sweat pants. I'm barefoot. I haven't showered in days. I have virtually no idea where I am, or which way I need to go to get home.

Clearly I haven't thought this through.

OK. New plan. I look around me and spot an empty sun drenched parking space. I go to it and sink down onto the curb, scrubbing my hands over my face.

Even if I had a clue where to go or how to get there, I'd still be stuck right here.

Buffy and directions. Buffy and driving. Buffy and fending for herself. All of these things are of the unmixy variety. I'd wanted my driver's license when I was sixteen, but that had turned out to be decidedly of the very bad.

I've never had to take care of anyone other than myself before, ever. And even that's a stretch, since really it's been dad taking care of everything, including me, for as long as I can remember.

I never even thought twice about it, letting him pretty much run my life. It had been all I knew. And yeah, there'd been a couple times when I'd done the normal teenage thing and rebelled a little. Short skirts, low cut tops, cutting classes...but never anything real, nothing wordly.

Definitely nothing that does me an eensy bit of good now.

I run my hands through my hair, pulling fingers through the matted strands.

 _Yugh._ What I wouldn't give for a shower.

My stomach growls.

And maybe some real food.

My thoughts drift back to Spike.

Does he know? Does he know how completely and utterly useless I am, is that what all those weeks of "research" showed him? Is that why he left me untied?

 _No._

I have a sudden gut twisting moment, and I _know_. I know why.

The same reason why he told me what he did. He knows that he's shown me at least a glimpse of my reality, the truth of the situation I'm in. Just hints, small amounts of information, but still enough to make me stop short if I thought about running.

If everything he said last night is true, if Wolfram and Hart is as hell bent on getting me as he says they are...then I have nowhere to go, nowhere I can run.

He said they wouldn't give up. That there'd be others.

 _"_ _You could do a lot worse than me."_

What if he's right?

I turn my head over my shoulder, toward the motel room I've just vacated.

Option A. Try my hand at hitchhiking. Run the risk of getting picked up by an actual axe murderer. Or another one of Wolfram and Hart's flunkies. Or a clown.

Or someone who likes to sing those horrible car trip songs.

Or play Eye Spy.

And even if I manage to get home, what then? Sit around and wait for one of those "others" Spike mentioned to find me? Have dad use another "cloaking spell" and...and what? Get more innocent girls killed before whoever they send next inevitably finds me?

Ok. Option B.

Stay with Spike. Let him take me wherever he needs to. Cooperate with him. Hope that he'll answer more of my questions about my mom.

Take my chances that maybe these evil lawyers don't want me for anything too horrible.

Neither option feels real solid to me, but the last thing I want is to risk the chance that Wolfram and Hart might go after dad if they can't find me.

Also, I can't picture Spike singing "The Song That Never Ends".

It's with these thoughts in mind that I find myself standing in front of the motel room door that I escaped from barely thirty minutes ago, raising a fist to knock. My knuckle barely touches the cool metal before the door swings open, revealing a seemingly empty motel room behind it.

I'm confused for a half second before I notice the sunlight streaming into the open doorway, casting my shadow against the ground.

"Right," I say, stepping inside. "You have that whole sun thing."

"Figured it out, have you?"

I know he isn't talking about my sun comment.

I watch Spike close the door behind me, twisting the deadbolt in place. He looks grumpier than usual. Hair sticking up in platinum spikes all over his head, eyes bleary with sleep.

He's barefoot.

It's weird.

I wonder if he's been watching me this whole time. I hadn't exactly been stealthy when I let the door slam closed.

Can vampires look out windows during the day? Is it only direct sunlight that's harmful?

I decide to ask Spike about it later.

"I'm showering before we leave tonight." Is all I say, turning my back to him and going to my bed. I pull down the comforter and get under the itchy cotton sheets, yanking them up to my chin.

I dream of lawyers with red eyes and forked tongues.


	7. Chapter 7

I wake up before Spike does, just in time to see the sun beginning to sink down behind a crop of trees past the parking lot outside our window.

When I turn to look at him he's sprawled on his back, one arm thrown haphazardly over his chest and the other over his forehead. He looks like he might be having another dream.

I sigh and roll out of bed, not bothered this time around when the mattress squeaks under my weight, and head into the bathroom.

I quickly close and lock the door behind me, turning gratefully to the toilet. I can't actually remember the last time I used the restroom, and I feel like I've had to pee for days.

Once I'm finished I move to the sink to wash my hands and freeze in horror at my reflection.

My hair is greasy and matted, and my skin has taken on a sickly looking pallor. There are dark shadows under both my eyes, makeup smeared down both cheeks in track lines leftover from tears I don't remember crying. I lean closer to the mirror and notice the faint discoloration peaking out underneath the curtain of hair gaining over my shoulder. I pull my hair back and tilt my head, exposing the long line of my neck.

The wounds aren't nearly as gruesome looking as I expect them to be, but I'm still a little surprised that my reaction to them isn't stronger. Maybe I'd be a little more wigged if I wasn't prepared to see the bite marks?

I lean a little closer, raising a cautious finger to touch first one, then the other round wound. I expect them to be all scabby and gross, but they look like they're already almost healed. There are faint, whitish discolorations on the top and bottom of the punctures. I trace these with my finger, too, and a small, involuntary shiver goes down my spine.

I turn to the opposite side and peel away the fraying bandage from my neck. I let it drop to the sink and pull my hair back from right shoulder, looking for the cigarette burn.

Except for the tiniest trace of red on the side of my neck, there's nothing.

I frown and pull at my skin, leaning closer, wondering if the fluorescent lights are playing tricks on my eyes.

Nope.

There's zilch, nada, nothing. No mark, no sign of the burn.

If I didn't know better, I'd think nothing had ever happened.

I frown at my reflection in the mirror, letting go of my hair, then lean over and absently turn on the shower, considering this new development.

How is it possible that a cigarette burn can heal and vanish in barely 24 hours? And the bite…that had happened what, nine hours ago?

I rack my brain for a logical explanation and come up with nothing. The only two things both wounds have in common, I think, is Spike.

Maybe he knows something I don't?

I undress quickly and hop into the warm spray of the shower, mentally cataloging another question to ask Spike.

A half hour, one super scratchy wash cloth and two bars of sticky hotel soap later, I exit the bathroom feeling a little more human, if not totally myself. I stand in front of the vanity mirror, reaching up to remove the towel I've turbaned around my hair. I run my fingers through the damp strands, catching them on a few tangles.

I grimace, wishing for the hundredth time tonight that I had a good comb and some of my more essential hair products.

I turn from the mirror and find Spike watching me from his bed, lounging comfortably with both hands behind his head and his booted feet crossed. He smirks at me around the cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Feel better?"

"Feel cleaner."

"Well, that's something." He brings one hand around and removes the cigarette, exhaling. "You hungry?"

"Why," I eye him cautiously, drop my hair towel down to the ground and begin combing my fingers through the tangles, "are _you_?"

He leers at me, tongue curling. "'M always hungry, pet."

I fight my gut reaction of "nose wrinkled in disgust" and look at him impassively, working through the last of the knots at the bottom of my hair. After a minute, I decide to deal head on with some of the curiosity that's been niggling at me.

"When you left the motel the other night, is that where you went?"

He arches an eyebrow coolly. "To feed?"

Gross.

"Do you have to say it like that?"

He grins. "To get dinner?"

"Not sure that's much better."

"Know what I am, luv. Won't make apologies for it, and bloody well not goin' to dance around it with you." He puts the cigarette back in his mouth.

"Fine," I grumble, glaring at him. "Did you go out to feed?"

"I did."

"How often do you do that?"

He shrugs, exhaling more smoke. "Depends. Can go several days between if I have to, but I prefer to eat once a day, at least."

"Do you always kill them?"

He looks taken aback at this. He tilts his head slightly, narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"What's got you so interested in my eating habits?"

"You- vampire. Me- food. Remember?" I shrug, echoing his words from the night before in the car.

He grins wolfishly at me. "Want to get inside the head of the beast, pet?"

I don't answer, just look at him expectantly and continue to finger comb my hair.

He sighs and removes the cigarette again, looking at it's glowing tip instead of at me.

"Didn't kill you, did I?"

"I'm different. You _can't_ kill me."

"I _can_ ," he corrects me, scowling. "Just not goin' to." He sniffs and pushes his lips out in an intimidating glower. "Least not til we get to New York and those poncy buggers ante up."

"New York?"

His haughty expression falters for a second, eyes going wide, before he catches himself. He shrugs and rolls his shoulders, shifting up to rest his back a little higher on the headboard.

"Yeah. New York."

"That's where we're going?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He growls. "Buffy—"

"Is that where Wolfram and Hart is?"

"No, not exactly—"

"Then why—"

"Bloody hell, will you _shut up_?"

The words are harsh, but there's no malice in them. His voice is more exasperated than angry. "We're headed to New York, you don't need to know why, stop bloody asking me questions." He pauses, puts the cigarette back, takes another drag, exhales slowly.

"I deserve answers, Spike." I say as forcefully as I can.

He smirks. "You think so?"

"Yeah."

"I told you last night, that's not how this works, luv."

I heave a sigh and give him my best defeated shoulder sag, leaning back against the vanity behind me.

I know Spike lied to me about mom last night. The longer I think about our conversation, the more plain that piece of the puzzle becomes.

And if he's going to use me as collateral, I'm going to use him for information.

"Look," I begin, dropping my gaze to the floor. "Do you see me here? With the not punching you in the nose and the not trying to escape. I'm cooperating. I'm all…model hostage Buffy." I shrug. "The least you can do after everything is tell me what I wanna know."

"Hmm," He purrs, and I'm sure he's doing something wicked with his tongue. "cooperating now, are you?"

He makes it sound dirty.

I glare at him.

For a moment we regard each other, gazes locked, and as the moment drags on I can't help but feel like we've reached some kind of crossroads.

He's the first to break eye contact.

"Right then." He murmurs, and drops his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, "get ready to leave without a fuss and we'll grab some nosh before we get back on the road, yeah?. Must be starved."

I raise a sardonic eyebrow at him.

"Because conversations about eating people really whet the appetite."

"Exactly."

Again, gross.

But I am kind of starving, and when my stomach growls loudly a second later, there's not much point in arguing.

I nod. "Alright."

It's quiet in the room for a little bit.

Spike finishes his cigarette and begins stuffing things haphazardly into his duffle, and I take the tiny bottle of motel lotion out of the bathroom and rub some onto my arms and neck.

When I've run out of things to do to occupy my hands while Spike prepares to leave, I fiddle with the drawstring on my sweat pants. I pull it as tight as it'll go so they'll stay up properly on my hips.

"Those are all I had," he says suddenly, breaking the silence and my train of thought. He gestures to the pants in question with a tilt of his head when I look up at him. "Know they're a bit big."

"Oh." I look back down at the pants, then up to him again.

I slept in Spike's sweat pants last night?

I probably should have figured that out before now, but I'd been too tired and too weak from the blood loss the night before to think much past the notion that my clothes were different.

And why is the image of Spike wearing sweat pants so wigsome?

I briefly imagine what they'd look like on him, slung low on his slim hips.

"Where's my dress?" I ask quickly, steering away from that thought.

"Had to toss it." He shrugs, and his facial expression shifts so that I can almost be called sheepish. "Got a bit, uh, bloody."

I make a face at him but don't comment, gather my still damp hair to one side, braiding it lazily down my shoulder. My left wrist tweaks a little with the effort, but it's not as bad as it was the night before.

When I finish, I look up to see Spike staring at me with that same weird look I saw on his face last night.

"What?"

He shakes his head and looks away, as if I've just caught him doing something he shouldn't be. "Ready?"

I look around the motel. It isn't like I've brought anything with me.

I shrug and take one last look in the mirror, noting the empty space behind me where Spike's reflection should be, and file away another question I'll ask him on the road. "As I'll ever be."

He pulls on the black leather duster and hoists the duffle bag onto his shoulder, crossing to the door. I follow. He yanks the door back and steps out, and I nearly smash into him as he turns back to me abruptly, brow furrowed.

Before I can ask him what's wrong I'm being scooped up into his arms, one beneath my knees and the other banded around my back, and we're moving quickly through the parking lot towards his car.

"Hey!" I shout, but my arms have already locked around his neck for fear of falling to the pavement. "What's the big idea?"

We reach his car and he sets me down, unlocking the passenger side door and pulling it open for me. I blink up at him, completely bewildered. He's looking down at me with an impassive expression, but his eyes are bright.

He points back toward the motel room door and I follow his hand.

"Broken bottle," he says, and I can see it now, shards of glass twinkling in the moonlight a foot or so from the threshold of the door. "Didn't think you'd be too keen on slicin' your toes open."

I look down at my bare feet and frown.

"Oh."

He starts to hum one of his punk songs and turns around, heads over to the driver's side. I stand there for a half second more, feeling confused.

"If you want to do something about those tummy rumbles, we need to go." His voice drifts out to me from inside the car, breaking through the haze.

On cue, my stomach growls again.

I shake my head to clear it and crawl into the passenger side, yank the door closed and buckle my seatbelt. Spike turns the key in the ignition and switches the stereo on.

He really does have terrible taste in music.

I turn to him and watch his profile as he backs out of the parking space, not bothering to look behind him.

"Can we get pancakes?" I ask as we pull onto the highway, and the completely bewildered look he gives me almost makes me laugh for the first time in days.

The tiny 24-hour roadside diner is called Annie's, and they supposedly serve the "world's best cup of coffee".

We sit down in a smallish booth at the far end of the diner and I immediately order a cup, as well as something they call the "Short and Fat" that has the most unfortunate name but consists of blueberry pancakes, bacon and hash browns and sounds incredible.

I'm surprised when Spike asks for the same thing and throws a devilish wink at our waitress, who blushes deeply and scurries away to place our order.

I'm staring at him with wide eyes when he turns back to me.

"What?"

"You're gonna eat pancakes?"

"Never had 'em with blueberries before." He shrugs.

I blink at him. "You're gonna eat…pancakes."

He rolls his eyes at me. "Don't need 'em for the nutritional value. Still have taste buds, don't I?"

Okay, so that's one question I don't have to ask.

"And the coffee?"

He gives me an amused half-smile, leaning towards me across the table top conspiratorially. "Do you have any sodding idea how many rat traps in this Godforsaken country claim to serve the 'world's best coffee'?" He puts air quotes aorund it, chuckling, and sprawls back casually in the booth. "Figure sooner or later I'm bound to actually find it."

I quirk a brow.

"You make it a habit of hitting up greasy diners to test their _coffee_?"

"Bloke's gotta have a hobby, don't he?"

I try my hardest but fail to keep the smile off my face.

Spike smirks back at me.

"You're a very strange vampire." I say finally, leaning back in the booth.

He laughs. "And you have so much experience dealing with us, yeah?"

I consider this.

He's right.

Until yesterday, I didn't even know vampires existed outside of cheesy B horror movies and young adult novels, and frankly the reality is a far cry from any pop culture depiction I've ever seen.

I wonder if all vampires eat human food.

Or if they all shower and drink too much whiskey, and dress their victims in spare pairs of sweatpants.

Or listen to The Sex Pistols, and wear smoky smelling leather.

Or is all this bizzare behavior uniquely Spike?

"No, I guess not." I say, thinking back to the other night, our conversation in the car. "Kind of stupid, really."

"What's stupid, kitten?"

 _Kitten?_

"How did I not know? About you?" I gesture to him with both hands. "All the vampy signs were there, and it's not like I haven't seen that Brad Pitt movie. And you said yourself that you thought it would've been obvious to me, in the car."

He frowns at me, and I can tell he's about to say something.

It's at this moment that our waitress brings us our coffee, a big green carafe and two chipped mugs, and sets them down in front of us. She pours a generous helping into Spike's mug, and noticeably smaller serving into mine.

I glare across the table at him as he tilts his head in just _that_ way and gives her a wide smile.

"You're a flirt." I accuse him after she leaves.

"Am not."

"Are too! With the winking and the smiling and the...accent." I wave my hand at him.

He arches an eyebrow, looking like he wants to laugh.

I glare.

"Not flirting, Buffy." He corrects me, grinning. "I'm _hunting_. Predator, yeah? Just luring my prey."

I gape at him, then lean forward across the table as far as I can.

"You're going to kill our waitress?" I hiss, horrified.

"Fella's gotta eat."

"But you just drank last night!"

He scoffs. "What, that little love bite?"

"You call this a 'little love bite'?" I hiss in a stage whisper, twisting my head to the side to show him the puncture wounds on my throat.

I expect him to say something dismissive, but when he doesn't I push on, words flying out of my mouth in a fit of panic.

"You said you can go a few days without eating."

"Only if I have to, luv. 'S not preferable, and I barely-"

"Drink from me instead."

 _What?_

"What?" Spike's eyes are very wide. He blinks at me, long and slow.

Once. Twice. Like he can't believe what I've just said.

Don't blame him, since I kind of can't believe it either.

We watch each other from across the booth, both of our eyes wide, searching the other's. When he breaks eye contact with me, it's to look over my shoulder.

I think he's looking for our waitress.

"No." he says, his voice low, brooking no argument.

"Spike—"

His eyes flash. "I said no."

I open my mouth to argue but our waitress returns, setting down our respective plates. I feel sick as she engages Spike in some particularly flirtatious banter. I look at her. She's pretty and young, and it hits me.

This could've been me a few days ago.

It _was_ me a few days ago.

I ignore the rolling of my stomach and turn to my plate, focus on slathering my pancakes in butter.

When our waitress finally leaves again it isn't long before I can feel Spike's eyes on me.

I stuff a bite of pancake in my mouth and force myself to swallow. My appetite is gone, but I don't know when we're going to stop to eat again and being weak and hungry for the rest of the trip doesn't seem overly smart.

"Why would you offer that to me?" he asks after a minute, his voice cool and conversational.

I look up. He's casually dousing his hash browns in hot sauce.

"Offer?" I ask, confused. My suggestion hadn't been an offer. Not a free pass to the all you can eat Buffy Buffet, but a panicked plea out of desperation and guilt.

Big, heaping, Elephant sized piles of guilt.

I wait for him to respond to me but he doesn't. He takes a big bite of the now-spicy hash browns and chews thoughtfully, not looking at me.

The silence stretches on between us for what feels like forever as he eats what he wants off his plate. I pick at a slice of bacon off my own and take my time cutting my pancakes into little bite-sized squares.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is different. Sincere but strained, like maybe he's struggled to come up with the right words.

"Not going to feed from you, Buffy."

I look up at him and put my knife and fork down with a huff. "Why not? You did it before! Last night-"

"Wasn't drinking from you, was I?" He shakes his head, a wry smile twisting the corners of his lips.

I squint at him, eyebrows drawn together as I try and piece together what he's saying.

"You bit me," I say angrily. " I was _there_ , remember? I could feel you _drinking_ my blood." Then I frown, remembering something else. "You said I was your vamp keg."

He grits his teeth. "Your words, pet, not mine."

"Still," I argue, "You said that's what I 'kind of" was."

"I didn't do that to—" He cuts himself off mid sentence, jaw straining.

I wait for him to continue, wondering why I'm sitting in a hole in the wall diner eating pancakes and discussing the finer points of dining with a vampire, meanwhile asking said vampire to pretty please bite me again.

Welcome to Bizzaroville, population me.

"Look," He starts over, jaw still working furiously, teeth clenched. "What happened last night…"

He gives up again, sighs, drops his fork onto his plate. He runs a hand through his platinum hair, and one of the curls springs loose from the gel and twists down over his forehead. "I lost my temper, alright? Didn't plan to do it. You were panicking and yelling and thinking the whole thing was a big bloody joke, a-and I could _smell_ you and I just…"

I wrinkle my nose. "Again with the smelling?"

But Spike isn't listening to me. He isn't even looking at me anymore.

There's a wild, sort of lost expression on his face as he stares down, his gaze fixed somewhere between the coffee carafe and his near empty plate.

"Not goin' to apologize." He shakes his head slowly. "Can't. Won't mean it. Point is, I didn't mean to, alright? But I bit you, and I—"

"Broke my wrist?" I offer, filling in the blank, taking a sip of coffee.

 _Yeugh._ _So_ not the world's best.

Spike looks up at me. "If I'd wanted to break your wrist, pet, I would've. Both know it's only sprained."

I look down at the wrist in question, my hand wrapped around the ceramic coffee mug.

The blue bruise that had been so visible only hours ago has already faded to a light yellow.

"And healin' quite nicely, it seems." He murmurs thoughtfully, his comment mirroring my thoughts with a note of the same surprise I feel.

"Yeah," I mumble, pushing the thought aside quickly and focusing on the current issue.

On the woman's life I'm trying to save.

I set my mug down on the table with a thud, infusing my voice with as much confidence and demanding as I can, feeling desperate. "Don't kill the waitress, Spike."

I look up and meet his eyes, resolve face firmly set. "Please."

He's silent for a bit, his eyes never leaving mine. There's no trace of the characteristic smirk or suggestive leer I've grown so used to seeing on his face the past few days.

Finally, he nods.

Just once, and it's almost imperceptible, but I see it.

It's enough.

"Where are we now?"

"Just outside Salt Lake."

"How many more miles is it to New York?"

"Don't know."

"Don't you have a map?"

"No."

"Then how do—"

"It's a two day drive, if you drive straight through."

I twist in my seat to gape at him. "42 _hours?!_ "

He nods, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "Minus the 9 or so we've already gone. Keep our pace up, should be there in about a week."

I groan and slump down in my seat.

"Aw, c'mon now." Spike teases, curling his tongue up behind his teeth when I look at him. "Thought we were havin' fun, pet."

"Oh, yeah. Laughs a plenty."

He turns back to the road. "We not tryin' to get along anymore?"

The teasing edge to his voice is gone, replaced with something else.

If I didn't know better, I'd say he almost sounds disappointed.

I wonder for the first time what kind of person he was, before. I add that to my growing list of questions.

I clear my throat when I realize I've been staring at him and turn around again.

"Well, you not being excessively violent _is_ a nice change."

The teasing note is back. "You not being excessively _difficult_ is a nice change."

I can't help but wonder if Spike would have been half as awful to me if I'd just tried to be a little more cooperative in the first place.

Not that I'd known to begin with that he was a vampire.

Or what he wanted with me.

Or who it was that had sent him looking for me.

Or how futile it would be for me to fight the situation.

On second thought, no. This is _completely_ his fault, and if he'd been more upfront with me from the beginning, I wouldn't have been so difficult.

But I don't say any of this out loud.

"Yup," I pop the "p", sighing. "Just call me cooperative girl."

"Think I prefer Buffy."

The softness in his voice catches me completely off guard.

I whip my head up to stare at him, thinking I must have heard wrong. I can only make out the silhouette of his profile in the dark. I can't see his eyes, and he doesn't say anything else, so I don't know if I've just imagined it or not.

"I stand by what I said before." I say quietly, still watching him.

He doesn't say anything, but I see the outline of his raised eyebrow.

"About you. I don't get you."

His eyes slide toward me.

"Still don't? Even now that you know what I am?"

"Especially now."

He turns his head fully to look over at me. His face is shadowed, I can't read the expression, but I do know his eyes are on mine. We stay like this for a tense moment until he's forced to turn his eyes back to the road.

"Can I ask you a question?" I ask, looking down at my lap, drawing little patterns with my fingertip on the fabric over my sweatpant clad thigh.

"Just did."

I groan. "Spike."

"'S it about where we're going or why?"

I toss him a wry glance. "No, actually."

"Fire away, luv."

I lean over and turn down the volume on the stereo.

"What does it mean to be a vampire?"

He raises an eyebrow, smirking appreciatively. "Apart from drinking blood and living for nearly sodding ever?"

I nod. "Yeah. I mean, those things I know. The blood, the sleeping during the day, the whole...immortal thingy." I wiggle my fingers at him and Spike laughs. "But there's gotta be more to it than that, right?"

"You think so, luv?"

I sense my opening and don't want to miss it, so I toss him one of my tougher questions. The one I'm the most concerned with.

"Do you have a soul?"

"Yup. Two of 'em."

I turn in my seat to glare at him, not amused. Spike laughs again.

I can't explain why I feel like it's so important for me to understand vampires, or more accurately, to understand Spike, but it feels necessary.

And just because I can't put my finger on why doesn't mean the feeling isn't totally valid.

"I just want to understand, Spike." I sigh, letting my head loll back against the seat.

A long silent beat passes between us.

"You wanna understand me, pet?"

I swivel my head towards him. "Yes."

"Think you can handle all the little nasties that I'll spill?" He chuckles humorlessly. "I'll be right happy to answer any question that little noggin of yours cooks up. But you won't like everything you hear, and _I_ don't want to hear about it when you don't." He pauses for effect, pinning me even through the darkness with his piercing blue eyes. "Got it?"

"Yeah." I say quickly, too curious and too desperate to get him talking to deny the deal. "Got it."

He turns back to the road.

"No. Don't have a soul. Don't even remember what it was like to have one, 's been so bloody long."

"How old are you?"

"Hundred and twenty-eight, give or take."

"Wow. So you're like totally old."

"Oi, watch it!"

We go on like this, back and forth and back and forth, for the next three hours.

I ask questions, Spike gives me answers, and sometimes we get so sidetracked on one explanation that by the time I get back to my mental list of questions he's already answered the next three.

I had no idea there was so much to learn about vampire culture and sacred practices (" _Buncha bleeding nonsense, s'what it is")_ let alone the long list of myths and preconceptions associated with them.

Spike laughs when I ask if he can turn into a bat, but tells me that Dracula -who hey, is real- can. He tells me more than I ever would have thought to ask, including several particularly funny stories about his past exploits, and I find that not only has this particular car ride flown by, but that I've actually almost enjoyed myself.

With Spike.

And how ooky is that? If it weren't for the whole him being an evil vampire that's kidnapped me and is taking me to some sort of cultish law firm in exchange for something seedy and also, ya know, being a big, cocky jerk, I'd say he was almost fun.

"Okay," I say, watching as the signs on the highway indicate we're getting close to Grand Junction, Colorado. "What's your greatest accomplishment?"

He sneers at me. "I'm a _vampire_ , Buffy?"

This has been his answer to a lot of my questions tonight.

I roll my eyes. "So? Vamps have accomplishments, don't they?"

"Oh yeah, tons, what with the maiming and the killing." He says sarcastically, "And why are you callin' us 'vamps' now?"

I shrug, having started doing it the night before without even thinking. "Abbreviations are good."

"Awfully presumptuous of you, having just learned 'bout us and all."

I frown, raising a questioning brow at him. "It's just a thing, Spike."

"Mmhm. What else do you have abbreviations for?"

It's my turn to smirk at him. "You're being avoidy."

"Am not."

"Are too."

He frowns. "'S gonna be an answer you won't like, luv."

 _Ah ha._

"So?" I pull my legs up under me and settle in, intrigued. "I agreed to the deal."

"You did at that."

"C'mon Spike," I goad him, reaching over to poke him in the arm. "Just tell me."

He turns his eyes on me, and the look in them makes me catch my breath.

I suddenly wonder if maybe I _don't_ want him to tell me.

But I don't say anything, just watch him, waiting for him to speak.

"Right then," he looks back to the road. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He takes a deep breath in, something I find more interesting now that he's confirmed for me that vampires don't need to breathe, and lets it out on a long sigh.

"You ever heard of the Slayer?"


	8. Chapter 8

"The what-er?"

He smirks knowingly, but his face is tense.

"As I thought. The _slayer_ , luv."

"I'm guessing you aren't talking about the band."

He shakes his head. "The chosen one. Called forth by an ancient something-or-other, supposed to fight vampires and other nasty things. Protect the masses. Keep the world from endin'." He waves his hand like it's inconsequential. "That sort of thing."

 _Oookay_.

"That sounds…intense?"

"One girl." He says it with an ironic chuckle. "Only thing in this world a vampire has to fear."

My lips curl into an involuntary smirk. "Girl?"

He sighs. "Yes, Buffy. Slayer's a girl."

I blink.

"Wow."

He raises an amused eyebrow. "Haven't even gotten to my part of the story yet."

I give a small laugh.

"Yeah, I know. It's just… one girl? With the whole world saveage?" I shrug, my voice small. "I mean, I kill my goldfish."

He does that same laugh he did the first night. The honest-to-god belly laugh, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

It's kind of a nice sound.

"So is she a myth?" I ask,bouncing in my seat a little, interest piqued. "Like…the Boogeyman for vamps?"

"Afraid not." He clears his throat, sobering. "Met a few slayers in my time."

I frown.

"Slayers? What happened to chosen _one_?"

"Slayers aren't immortal, pet. Opposite, really. They're fast and strong, bloody glorious in their element, but still human in the end." He glances over at me, gauging my reaction. "Tend to live short, brutal lives, slayer's do. Calling's a right dangerous one."

I consider this for a minute.

"So there's just one at a time, then."

"Right."

"One girl? Against…how many are there of you?"

"Too many to count, luv."

I tilt my head and narrow my eyes. "Doesn't seem fair."

"I don't give a bloody damn. Besides, s'not like they run out. One slayer snuffs it, another one rises." He shrugs like it's nothing.

I give him a look.

"What? The bint's bloody calling in life is to _slay_ me. And it's not like she's helpless, yeah? Equally matched to us. Maybe even a little stronger."

My eyes go wide.

"She's that strong?"

He breathes a laugh. "Preternatural strength, luv. Part of the slayer package." Then he grins nastily. "What makes takin' 'em down so impressive."

Oh.

 _Oh._

 _"_ _What's your greatest accomplishment?"_

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "So when you say 'met'…"

"Killed, yeah." So casual, like it's nothing."Right difficult, that. Got me the title and everythin'." He's grinning from ear to ear. "Slayer of slayers."

He sounds so proud.

My stomach does a weird roll-y thing and I close my eyes, wondering how mad Spike'll be if I get blueberry pancake all over his car.

"You've accomplished…killing a slayer."

I should have seen this coming. I shouldn't be surprised.

 _He's a vampire, Buffy._

"Not just one, pet."

I have this weird feeling in my chest. It's a little like disappointment, but it can't be that.

 _"_ _Don't say I didn't warn you."_

"And you fought them…in self defense?"

It's a stupid question, and I already know the answer.

Still…

 _Please say yes, please say yes, please say—_

"Hell no! Sought 'em out, I did. Best bloody nights of my unlife. Nothin' like dancin' with a slayer." He grins again, looking wistful. "'S the best part."

My stomach twists at his words.

"H-how old are they...when…"

"They get chosen?" He frowns, saying it like he doesn't think it should matter. "Dunno. I took one out once that couldn'a been more than fifteen."

"Oh, God…"

He looks over at me, eyebrows raised. I stare back at him. I'm not even trying to hide the disgust on my face.

"Buffy?"

"That… _that's_ your greatest accomplishment? Murdering those girls?"

He scoffs, sneering. "What'd you think, pet? That it'd be winning the bloody Nobel Prize?"

I shake my head, fighting the urge to vomit. I close my eyes, and his demon visage swims behind them.

 _"_ _I"m a vampire, Buffy."_

A demon.

Evil, untrustworthy, soulless.

Not someone to play 20 questions with.

Not _someone_ at all.

"It isn't enough that you already kill innocent people for food?" I ask, breathless, reeling. "You have to go after the _one_ person chosen to protect them, too?" I open my eyes to accuse him. "For _sport_?"

He looks positively offended.

"I gave them a warrior's death, Buffy." He growls.

I gape at him.

"You say it like they should be _grateful_!" I yell.

"If it wasn't me, it would've been something else. They knew what they were signing up for!" Spike yells back, slamming on the break and putting the car in park.

I look forward to see we're parked in front of what looks like a knock off Walmart, parking lot empty. I hadn't even noticed that we'd pulled off the highway.

"You're disgusting." I whisper, remembering the pride in his voice a moment ago.

Bragging about murders he'd committed.

Lives he'd ended so callously.

"Hey!" Spike reaches out before I have time to react, cupping my chin in his right hand. His grip is firm but not bruising as he pulls my face around, forcing me to look at him.

His eyes are stormy, voice low and dangerous. "You asked. I told. It isn't my bloody fault if you don't like the answer." He stares into my eyes and his voice softens. "I told you you wouldn't."

He's right, but it doesn't matter.

I wrench my face out of his grip and turn my whole body away from him, crossing my arms over my chest and staring out the passenger side window.

He sighs loudly.

"If it makes you feel better, they weren't all so young."

I close my eyes. "It really doesn't."

It's completely silent in the car after this. I don't even hear Spike breathing, which is another unwelcome reminder that he is in fact dead.

Dead and evil. And a vampire.

He makes it so easy to forget.

I hate him a little for it.

"I'll answer one question."

His voice cuts through my thoughts like a fog horn, but I don't think he's more than whispered.

I turn to look at him. He's leaning against his seat, head thrown back, eyes closed. His hands are folded in his lap.

"What?"

He doesn't open his eyes.

"About your mum. Anything you want to know."

My eyes go wide.

"Is this a trick?" I ask, keenly aware that he might be manipulating me.

A smirk tweaks the corner of his mouth. "One question, Buffy. Choose wisely."

I turn fully around to face him, uncrossing my arms, completely and totally disarmed by the burst of hope this single murmured statement gives me.

And then a million thoughts race through my brain.

Is Spike admitting that he lied last night? Is he manipulating me? Had he known my mom personally, or just heard of her? Does he know what really happened to her? Does it have something to do with Wolfram and Hart?

Will he tell me the truth if I ask?

"Do I have to choose right now?"

He does open his eyes then, lifts his head, looks over at me with an unreadable expression.

"No," He says slowly, brow furrowed. "I guess not."

I nod. "I want to think about it first."

He acknowledges this with another throat clearing and a muttered "Okay then", then he leans around me and pulls open the glove box, taking out a handful of rumpled napkins. He dumps them in my lap and pulls a pen out of his duster pocket, handing it to me.

"Sunnydale Motor Inn?" I look up at him, eyebrows raised.

"Write down what you need," He jerks his head toward the store in front of us, "I'll go get it."

I stare at him for a second, bemused, then pull the cap off the pen and flatten one of the napkins against the closed glove box.

I decide on just the necessities, listing off shampoo and conditioner, chapstick, a brush, my favorite body spray and my pant and shoe sizes, just in case.

On a whim, I write down the brand of mascara I use, but think better of it and cross it out before handing the napkin back to Spike.

He looks down at it, nods, then opens the door to climb out of the car.

Before I know what I'm doing, before I can stop myself, I'm reaching over and grabbing his wrist.

He looks back at me, a startled expression on his face.

"Thanks." I mumble.

I don't know what it is that I'm thanking him for. Maybe it's the potential promise of him telling me about my mom. Or maybe it's for going shopping for me. Or maybe it's for him being honest with me, even when he knew I wouldn't like it.

I don't know.

I don't think he knows either.

But he gives me a smile in the tiniest quirk of his lips, and then he's gone.

"You ever get tired of roadside motels?" I ask, hauling the bag with all the stuff Spike brought me back from knock-off Walmart up over my shoulder and leaning against the wall.

Spike fiddles with motel room door.

"What can I say?" He jiggles the door knob and frowns, twisting it hard to the right. "Find 'em charming."

He isn't using a key. He has what looks like an open hair pin in one hand and a metal pick of some sort in the other.

"And free?" I ask.

The lock makes a popping sound and he grins, twisting the door knob and pushing the door open. He looks over at me. "That, too."

He gestures with a gallant sweep of his arm for me to go first, so I step around him and walk into the room, flipping on the overhead light.

This room is almost identical to the last two.

Worn down carpet, two queen beds, a nightstand, a dresser, a TV and a small desk with one chair. The bathroom is tucked back around one corner, an alcove with a sink and mirror before it.

Everything looks like it's seen better days— dirty, rusted, busted or worse.

I grimace and step further inside to allow Spike room to follow and cross to the far bed. I set my bag down on the mattress and sit down beside it.

Then I notice a huge stain on the bedspread beside my leg.

I jump back up with a squeal, staring at the stain with disgust.

"And you're already dead, so I guess disease isn't a big concern?"

Spike chuckles and crosses to stand beside me, peering down at the stain on the mattress. "That it's not."

He lifts my bag up and tosses it onto the opposite bed.

I cross my arms over my chest and look up at him. I know it's still about an hour or so before sunrise, which is when Spike usually goes to bed. We've been surprisingly civil since we left the store parking lot, and I wonder if now would be as good a time as any to try ask him more questions.

Not about my mom. Not yet.

But maybe he'll tell me more about Wolfram and Hart?

He sets his own bag down where mine just was, undisturbed by the stain, and unzips it. He pulls out a full bottle of whiskey and turns to set it on top of the dresser beside the TV.

"You drink a lot." I observe, walking over to my bed and imitating him, unzipping the miniature glittery pink duffle bag and pulling out the plastic bag of toiletries he got for me.

I made a fuss when I first saw the ugly pink bag, but the more I look at it, the more it kind of grows on me.

"Yeah," Spike says, who's rifling through his own bag again. "I also smoke a lot, swear a lot, and have lots of filthy, kinky sex."

I whip my head around to look at him, eyes wide. He's grinning almost boyishly at me. "Ever play two truths and a lie, pet?"

I half-smirk, shaking my head at him. "I _did_ go to public school."

"So?"

I raise an eyebrow at him, pulling a pair of soft flannel pajama pants out of my bag. "So?"

 _Oh, fluffy._

"Which one's the lie?" He picks up the whiskey bottle and the two plastic cups he must've just pulled out of the bathroom and moves to sit down in the desk chair, leaning back and propping his feet up on the desk top.

He waggles his eyebrows at me.

He's trying to ruffle my feathers.

"Well," I say, pausing thoughtfully, pulling out an oversized sleep shirt that feels like silk in my hands. "I hardly ever hear you swear, so..."

Spike leans forward and uncaps the whiskey, dumping a healthy portion into one of the cups. He lifts it and holds it out to me.

"Wrong. Drink up."

I look at him in disbelief. "What?"

"You guessed wrong. You lose. Drink up."

I roll my eyes.

"I am _not_ playing a drinking game with you, Spike."

He pouts. The expression looks so ridiculously out of place amidst the leather and white-blonde hair that I actually laugh out loud.

"Why not?"

"Because," I say, turning my attention away from his pouting lips and back to my bag. "it's wiggy. And wrong."

"Wrong to have a little fun?"

"With you? Yes."

"Ouch, pet."

"You know what I mean. We're…" _—_ _tolerating each other, getting along, arguing, currently flirting shamelessly?–_ "cooperating, right now. But you still kidnapped me, Spike. Manipulated me. Hurt me." I sigh, rubbing my neck. "You're still just using me to get what you want. We're not drinking buddies." I shake my head, digging absently through my bag, not really looking for anything in particular. "Besides, you're evil. You'd probably just lie so I lose every time, anyway."

"Promise I won't."

I look up at him, curious at the note of sincerity in his voice. His head is tilted to the side, considering me with those twinkling blue eyes. He's still holding the cup in his hand, but he's no longer extending it out to me.

"And I should believe you...why?"

He laughs. "'You shouldn't."

I nod, turning my attention to the plastic toiletry bag. "Mmhm."

"C'mon, pet. One drink." I look over at him in time to see him run one hand down his chest to his waistband, the same way he did the first night in his car. "You know you want to."

I swallow.

"This is peer pressure, you know."

"Please, Buffy." he purrs.

I hate him a little right now, too.

I toss my hands in the air. "Why?"

"Why not?" And the falsely innocent look on his face does me in.

"I don't really drink," I protest weakly, even as I find myself standing up and crossing to him to take the cup of whiskey in my hand. "Alcohol and Buffy aren't so mixy."

My fingers brush his for a split second before he pulls the cup out of my reach and brings it to his lips, tipping it back, draining about half of it.

He hands it back to me, smirking.

"There now, think you can handle that?"

How does he make everything sound like an innuendo?

I'm about to bring the glass to my lips when I stop suddenly, an idea forming.

"I'll make you a deal."

He leans back in the chair, smirking, crossing his arms behind his head.

"And what deal is that, luv?"

"I ask you a question, _any question_ , and you have to answer. If you refuse, you have to drink."

I grin at him, warming to the idea considerably the more I think about it.

 _I might be a genius._

He grins up at me. "Same goes for you then, Goldilocks."

My smile falls.

 _Maybe not._

But what secrets do I have to hide from Spike? He's the one who's been all with the cryptic, "don't ask me questions, I'm a big scary vampire" crap.

Anything worth knowing about me, he probably already knows anyway.

"Deal."

I kind of hate Spike.

For being an evil, soulless thing.

For manipulating me.

For lying to me.

For being so interesting.

And for being pretty decent company.

And right now, I hate him for having such a high alcohol tolerance.

So far, my plan's a total bust.

I've got nothing in the way of new information. Spike refuses to answer any question regarding Wolfram and Hart, and throws back shot after shot, like it doesn't bother him at all.

But I'm bothered.

I'm bothered _a lot._

Shouldn't play 20 questions with Spike, but drinking with him? Well, that's just hunky with a side of dory.

We've both taken up residence on the floor between our two beds, facing each other with our backs against the mattresses, the whiskey and plastic cups on the floor between us.

I've answered three of the five questions he's asked me, mostly about my dad and my childhood, and one particular eyebrow raising one about whether or not I "experimented" in college.

That one earned him a slap and me my second drink of the night.

I'm more than a little bothered that I'm feeling so at ease around him, especially after the way the whole slayer conversation went in the car.

I don't know if it's the whiskey, or it's Spike, or some heady combination of the two.

I don't want to think too much into it.

It's my turn to ask another question, and I decide to try for one that he might actually answer. The whiskey from my two half shots is burning in my stomach, and my head feels a little light as I tilt my head toward him.

"What's it feel like to not have a soul?" I ask, not just because I think he'll answer but because I'm genuinely curious.

Spike tilts his head to the side, matching my pose.

"Like freedom."

I frown at him. "That's dumb."

"No, it isn't. Not having a soul...it's liberatin'. You're free." He lifts his cup and downs his shot, even though he doesn't have to. "Free of rules. Free of conventions. Free of those pesky moral obligations."

"Free to murder fifteen year old girls." I interject, only sounding a little bitter.

Spike ignores me.

"Right and wrong don't matter anymore. All that matters is what you _want_."

"And you want to be evil?"

He does that blinky thing, like I'm stupid. "Well, yeah."

I bring my empty cup up in front of my face, twirling it around. "What if you wanted to be good?"

Spike chuckles. "I don't."

I'm still not looking at him, thinking instead of the emphasis he put on the word. "If you _wanted_ to be good, even without a soul, could you be?" I hiccup. "If it's what you _wanted_?"

Spike gives me a thoughtful look, but doesn't move to answer me.

"That's more than one question, kitten." He lifts the whiskey bottle and pours another round of shots into both our cups. I notice he fills mine a little more than halfway this time.

I don't say anything.

I've already forgotten what I just asked him.

"My turn," he says, smirking. "You a virgin, Buffy?"

I fix him with as stern a glare as I can, planning not to answer.

My lips have other plans.

"Nope," pop the "p", "not a virgin. No virginity here." I sing song, not sure why I can't get my mouth to stop moving. "I'm down one v-card. V-cardless Buffy, that's me."

 _Whoa._

I stare at the whiskey bottle like it's just said something offensive.

Spike laughs. "See what you mean about not being 'mixy'."

I mock glare at him. "Are _you_ a virgin, Spike?"

 _Ohhh, dumb._

He runs his tongue slowly along his lower lip before responding. "What do you think?"

I scrunch my nose up. "Is that your answer?"

"No, not a virgin." Then he pauses, brow furrowing as though he's thinking about something serious. "Well, I guess it's all in how you look at it, innit?"

I finish the shot in my cup and shudder, sticking my tongue out and making a funny _yeeeaugh_ sound.

Spike pours another round in my cup.

"What do you mean?" I cough.

He bends both his knees up, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his thighs. He tilts his head in that thoughtful way he does, a small smile on his lips. He brings his cup up and downs it, pours himself another, brings that one up to his lips and pauses.

"Never had sex when I was alive."

I cough again, but not on the whiskey this time.

"What?!" I sputter, looking at him wide eyed.

He gives me a wicked smirk, curling his tongue up.

I wonder if he knows what that expression looks like?

"Only after I was turned, pet." He says with a wink, then ads. "And only with other vampires."

I feel instantly sober at the thought.

Other vampires.

Plural.

I find that something about this deeply bothers me.

And I hate him for that, too.

"Ew." Is all I manage to say, but it comes out a breathy whisper.

He eyes me up and down, tilting his head. "Never been with a human girl,"

he purrs. He lowers his lashes, giving a little half shrug. "Thought about it, o'course."

He's screwing with me. I know it. But the whiskey is buzzing in my head and his eyes are so blue when he looks back at me and they're burning straight through me and all I can manage is a weak "You're a pig, Spike."

I'm blushing furiously.

And I'm still wearing Spike's sweatpants.

I stand up, probably too quickly, and weave my way over to the bed where the new pair of pajama pants I laid out earlier are. I begin to untie the drawstring on the sweats, stopped short by Spike's throaty chuckle.

I glance at him. He's eyeing my hands on the drawstring.

"You wanna give it a go, pet?" He sweeps his eyes up to mine, leering.

Something drops and begins to burn in my center.

 _Hate him, hate him, hate him._

"Sorry, necrophilia isn't my thing."

I grab the pajama pants off the bed and practically sprint toward the bathroom, Spike's rumbling laugh following me all the way.

I change out of his pants as quickly as possible, chest heaving, face flushed, fuming.

I flip the shower on cold and jump in. I stay under the spray until I can't stand it anymore, climb out and change into the new pajama pants and the now very dirty camisole.

I stay in the bathroom for a long time afterwards.

When I finally emerge about an hour later, the lamps are off, the whiskey and cups cleared away. There's a soft blue light coming in from under the curtains.

Spike's asleep.

Or he's at least pretending to be.

He's such a rude, disgusting, evil, _jerk_.

Ya know, except when he's _not_.

I wish he'd make up his mind. I'm gonna get whiplash.

I hurry over to my side of the room and crawl in bed, noting that at least these sheets aren't as itchy as the last ones, and fall asleep.

I dream of Spike, dressed in low slung grey sweatpants, fighting to the death with a young girl that looks a lot like me.


	9. Chapter 9

I wake up with a pounding headache and a fuzzy tongue.

Spike's gone.

I sit bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. I scan the dark room looking for signs that he hasn't left me here.

I spot his bag on the floor beside his bed, dirty clothes strewn haphazardly around it. The most obvious sign that he hasn't run off, of course, is his leather duster, hanging over the back of the desk chair.

I crawl over the bed to the window and peel back the curtain. It's dark out, so it has to be after sunset. Spike's big black car is parked where he left it last night.

I consider going back to sleep for all of ten seconds before I decide to take a shower instead. I pull the toiletries out of my bag and tuck them under my shoulder, carrying them into the bathroom with me.

I change out of my pajamas and peer into the bag, pulling out the shampoo and conditioner I'd asked for, and stopping short.

At the bottom of the bag, hidden beneath the chapstick and the hair brush and the mini toothpaste and toothbrush kit, is a small package containing my mascara. The brand I'd written down and scribbled through on the napkin last night.

I stare at it for a minute but don't pull it out.

Why I'd even felt compelled to ask for it in the first place, I don't know.

And why Spike would go out of his way to get it for me, I don't know, either.

Whiplash.

I fold the plastic bag up and set it on the counter next to the sink, crank the rusted shower handle to Hot, and get in—determined not to think anymore about Spike and his weird mixed signals.

The shampoo and conditioner are like heaven as I lather them through my hair, the scent of vanilla and sandalwood completely soothing, and when I finish with this shower I actually feel a little bit like me again.

I hop out, dripping on the floor mat, and wrap one big towel around my body knotted at my chest.

I roughly towel dry my hair, comb through the tangles with my new brush and decide on a whim to utilize the tiny blow dryer connected to the wall by a flimsy looking cord.

The shampoo and conditioner have left my hair shining and soft, and when I flip my hair back to look at my reflection, I actually recognize myself.

Impulsively, I reach into the bag and grab the mascara package, rip it open and apply just a little to both my upper and lower lashes before I can over think it.

I toss the tube back into the bag and sigh at my reflection, suddenly feeling silly.

But also feeling like I look almost nice.

Not that I care what I look like.

Cause I don't.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Spike still isn't back.

I frown, glancing at the alarm clock glowing red on the night stand. It's only a little after 9:00, but Spike had mentioned wanting to make it to Kansas City tonight.

I don't know exactly how long a drive that is, but considering we're just barely inside the Colorado border, I have a feeling it's pretty long.

And then I frown at myself, wondering why I'm concerned whether or not Spike gets me to Wolfram and Hart _at all_ , let alone how quickly.

I wonder if Stockholm Syndrome is a real thing and go over to the bed, put my toiletry bag inside the pink duffle, pull out a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt and put them on.

The t-shirt's a little big, but the jeans fit perfectly.

Sighing, I pick up the remote control, flick on the ancient looking television and sit down on the bed to wait.

I flip the TV off automatically when I hear the door open a little while later.

Spike swaggers in casually, humming, shutting the door behind him. He only glances at me briefly before heading straight toward the bathroom.

When it's clear he isn't going to say anything, I clear my throat.

He turns his head to look at me, hands braced on either side of the bathroom doorway.

"Yes?"

"Where'd you go?" I ask, folding my arms over my chest. "I woke up and you were gone."

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing me through long lashes. "Worried about me, were you?"

I scoff. "More like...worried about the people that might run... into you..." I trail off, wincing at the lame retort.

He smirks. "Only people that stay in these dives are druggies and alcoholics, pet. Not drinkin' that."

I give him a falsely sweet smile. "Glad to know you have standards."

"Right." He drawls. "Well as fun as it is to stand here and listen to you mock me, we have a schedule to keep, yeah?" He pinches the hem of his black t-shirt, yanks it over his head. "Just gonna pop in the shower and we'll be off."

He drops his hands to the button fly of his jeans and I quickly avert my eyes.

"Yeah," I mutter, "wouldn't want to be late for my impending doom."

I hear him chuckle as the bathroom door closes.

A second later the unmistakable sound of the shower turning on filters through the thin wall, and I reach over to grab the remote control again, hell bent on keeping my mind otherwise occupied.

I systematically flip through the 12 or so channels, not expecting to find anything particularly interesting. I pause briefly on each, long enough to scan the basics, before moving on.

I make it through all 12 four times before something catches my eye.

A flashing Breaking News bulletin, a headline, a scrolling banner, all flashing variations of the same thing.

 _Breaking: Q-Mart Employees Found Dead, Throats Torn_

On screen, above the scrolling banner, a blonde, doe-eyed reporter is standing in front of the big windows and glowing sign of a super store.

It's the knock-off Walmart.

I grip the remote and frantically click the up button on the volume.

"…city of Grand Junction is still reeling tonight, following the discovery of three bodies at the local Q-Mart. General Manager, Tom Jones, came into work this morning to find three of his night shift employees dead, all having suffered severe head and neck trauma. The coroner's report lists the cause of death as exsanguination. So far, the police have no leads…"

The blonde reporter is still talking on screen, but I've stopped listening.

Three bodies. Three people dead. Where Spike and I were last night.

Exsanguination.

That's blood loss, right?

Last night. Where Spike was…

And what had I been thinking? That he'd walked up and paid for all the stuff he'd brought back to the car?

I fist the material of my t-shirt, horrified.

The clothes I have on, the toiletries I've just used?

Bought at the price of someone's life.

The scent of my shampoo wafts to my nostrils and the smell is enough this time to make me gag.

It's my own words that come back to haunt me.

 _"_ _Don't vampires just kill and take what they want?"_

I slump forward on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, folding in on myself. My stomach twists the same way it did last night, and I'm glad I haven't eaten recently.

It's different this time than before. Different than hearing about the other girls, even hearing about the slayers.

Hearing about Spike killing people and having it shoved in my face on the nightly news are two very different things.

This is the first time I've been directly involved.

I think back to how Spike had seemingly agreed not to eat our waitress. I wonder now if he'd gone back to do it, anyway.

It's ludicrous. I don't know when he would have had the time.

But in the face of the ugly death staring back at me from the TV screen, anything seems possible.

Head still in my hands, I barely register the sound of the shower turning off.

I look up to see Spike emerging from the bathroom, black jeans zipped but unbuttoned at his waist. He pulls the door closed behind him, smoothes the damp platinum locks back away from his face.

He glances at me, then looks away.

"Listen, I—"

I run at him as fast as I can, plowing into him with all my strength, using my shoulder to push him back against the bathroom door.

"Bloody hell!" He yelps, startled.

I brace one forearm against his throat and push my other hand against his bare chest, instinctively leveraging my body to pin him with my hips.

"What did you _do_?" I hiss, digging my arm in harder.

His eyes are wide as they search mine. "What are you on about?"

I push against his wet, bare chest, digging my nails in. "You _know_ what."

He inhales sharply but continues to let me pin him there.

"No, I do—" He stops mid-sentence, and there's that tongue curling smirk. _"_ _Oh."_

He chuckles, his breath fanning against my lips, all cigarette smoke and something else.

That sickly sweet, metallic smell.

He grins, tilts his head, looking very proud of himself. "Is this about last night?"

I stare him down, can feel the heat rolling off my face in waves, mere inches away from his. I'll never get used to his casual approach to killing.

Never.

"You're _disgusting_." I push away from him, furious and fuming and feeling all kinds of betrayed for reasons I have no right to feel.

"Got you all riled up, did I?" He teases, voice smoldering.

I glare at him, practically vibrating with rage, hating that I've aligned myself with this monster.

Even if it was out of necessity. Even if only because I had no other choice.

He's staring at me, lips parted, breathing heavily. The look in his eyes is mocking and dark with what can only be lust, and I feel my body reacting before my brain can catch up.

With a wild, strangled sound that's part wail and part sob, I fly at him again, pounding at his chest with tiny, ineffectual fists.

He lets me hit him.

How many more people have to die before this is all over? How much more blood will there be on my hands?

If I try to run, people die.

If I stay, people die.

So many have already.

So many dead people.

Spike grips my wrists in his hands and pulls them away from him, expression bewildered.

"What are you talking about?" He asks, and I realize I've been talking out loud. "Who's dead?"

Breathless, eyes burning, I glare daggers at him.

"Those people. Last night, at the store!" I point behind me in the direction of the TV. "Three of them were found dead this morning, with their _throats_ torn out!"

Spike frowns and looks over my shoulder, toward the TV, eyes narrowed to read the moving script on the screen.

"Huh." He says finally, tilting his head to the side.

I manage to wrench one arm free from his grip and form a fist, slamming it as hard as I can into the bridge of his nose.

"Ow!" We cry out in unison, his head popping back to smack against the door, my hand stinging painfully as I shake it.

Then his hands are on my shoulders, gripping me, pushing me away from him and spinning us around so that I'm the one pinned to the door. "Bloody hold on a second." He growls.

He's pressing me into the door, hands firm around my upper arms, both of us panting. Every time he breathes in, his bare chest grazes mine.

"I told you before. I know what I am, and I'm not _ashamed_. I'm not _sorry_. I'm higher up on the damn food chain, and that's bloody that. Said it a million times and you _still_ don't seem to understand, so let me explain it, good and proper."

He leans in toward me, his lips against my ear.

"I am a killer." He breathes, sending a shiver down my spine. "It's what I do. I kill."

He leans back again, eyes flashing. "And every time you forget that, you're playin' a very dangerous game with your life." He's right in my face, cool lips an inch from mine. "I have to _kill_ to _live_."

He removes his hands from my arms and takes a step back, voice softening as he gestures dejectedly to the TV behind him. "But I didn't do that."

My first impulse is to laugh in his face.

The second is to believe him.

I don't do either.

"But—"

He shakes his head. "I didn't."

I mumble dumbly, looking over his shoulder at the TV screen, "Their throats were torn out."

"Wasn't me, Buffy. Nicked the kit, yeah," he gestures toward my new clothes, "but tha's it. Precious pulsers were still breathin' when I left."

All of the breath rushes out of my lungs in a whoosh.

"Y-you..."

He cuts me off.

"I did feed. Not last night, but….that's where I was. Earlier." He drops his gaze, cups a hand around the back of his neck. "I did kill someone, Buffy. But not them." He points to the TV again. "Not those people."

My eyes are burning, every ounce of fight I'd had a moment ago draining away from me.

I sag against the door.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Spike looks up at me, stormy blue eyes beseeching. "Just felt like you should know."

"Who was it?"

He looks away, looks back, searches my eyes for something. He must find what he's looking for.

"Some guy. Junkie lookin' fella, skulking around the back of the motel." He shrugs. "Drug addict or some such."

I take a minute to let this sink in. Irony not withstanding, the subtext in his words is pretty clear.

No one who'll be missed.

"That doesn't make it okay." I whisper.

He sighs, sounding tired. "I don't _care_ , Buffy."

"But why not?" I ask, looking hard into his face, his eyes, trying to understand. "I mean, yeah, I get it. No soul. But…" I let out a shuddering sigh. "Can't you just… _try_ to care? Can't you _want_ to?"

My voice breaks, and I look away from him quickly, eyes stinging.

"Hey now," he murmurs, and I feel his cool fingers under my chin. "None of that."

I let him guide my face up but allow my eyes to fall closed, afraid of what I'll see if I open them.

Afraid of what I'll do.

But Spike doesn't ask me to look at him.

He starts tracing cool, calloused fingers from my chin to the right side of my jaw, gliding them up to the curve of my earlobe, and back again.

He repeats the action on left side.

My lips part.

This is wrong. This is _so_ wrong.

Spike's just admitted to me that he _murdered_ someone.

Not that I didn't already know he was a murderer. If I didn't before, his little speech a moment ago leaves little doubt.

True, he wasn't the one who'd killed those people on the news...or so he says.

But barely an hour ago he took a human life.

His mouth probably still tastes of someone else's blood.

"Buffy."

My eyelids flutter open at the sound of my name, spoken so softly. He's looking down at me in a way I've never seen him do before, except maybe once, when he was William. His index finger is flat against my jaw, thumb curved beneath my chin. I watch his gaze travel from my eyes to my lips and back again.

"Before," He begins, voice honeyed, weaving a spell around us, "when you asked me to drink from you instead?"

I don't trust my voice to speak, so I just nod.

"It was because you feel guilty?" His thumb begins soft, hypnotic strokes back and forth.

I nod again.

"Don't." He moves his thumb up a little higher, catching it on my lower lip. He stares at it. "Don't feel guilty."

He takes another, small step forward and his lips are so close to mine.

I swallow hard, finding my voice.

"The names on that list, Spike." I remind him in a whisper, voice thick with tears. "Those girls are dead because of me."

He gives a slight shake of his head. "Those girls are dead because of _me_."

I'm transfixed by his eyes on my mouth.

He rubs his thumb against my lip once more, moves his hand so his palm is pressed flat against my cheek. His skin is cool against the heat of my flushed face.

"I'm the monster, Buffy." His voice is husky and low as he sweeps the calloused pad of his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a tear I hadn't known had fallen. "Not you." He leans toward me. "Never you."

My eyelashes flutter closed and his lips ghost over mine.

 _Bang._

My eyes fly open in time to see our motel room door being kicked in, splinters of wood flying everywhere. I gasp, taking a deliberate step back from Spike, looking toward the hulking figure standing in the doorway.

A thrill shoots down my spine.

 _Vampire._

The figure steps into the room, yellow eyes gleaming, fangs bared. He looks from me to Spike and back again, raking his eyes up from my toes to my neck.

He smirks, sniffing the air.

"Oh, yummy."

A feral growl rumbles from deep in Spike's chest.

"Forget how to knock, mate?" He wraps a firm hand around my arm, pulling me behind him. "Little busy here."

"So I see. Playing with your food now?" The other vampire tsks, clicking his tongue, taking a long stride toward us. "I'd heard you'd gone soft but this…" he trails off, gesturing toward me, "is pathetic."

I frown at him from behind Spike's back.

They know each other?

Spike widens his stance in response to other vampire's insult, rolling his shoulders back.

"Piss off, Lenny." He growls. "I'd hate to have to hurt you."

The other vampire, Lenny, takes another long stride forward, undaunted by the threat.

"Oh, come on, Spike." He spits his name venomously. "You really think you'd be the only vampire Wolfram and Hart would tap?"

My ears perk up.

So this is one of those "others" Spike mentioned?

He tilts his head. "Only one worth his salt, yeah."

Lenny grins maliciously.

"Man, those guys are just itching to get their hands on her." He takes another step and peers around Spike's shoulder, licking the tip of one long fang. "Guess I can see why."

"What do you know about it?" Spike asks, sounding suspicious.

Lenny chuckles, looking uglier by the second. He shrugs. "I bring them the little bitch, they give me the Gem. Seems simple enough."

 _Gem?_

Spike stiffens.

"Don't think so, mate." He takes a step forward, all bare chested and predatory.

"What? You gonna stop me?" Lenny laughs, rears back, and smashes his fist into the side of Spike's face.

Spike, for his part, seems unfazed.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in through his nose, then turns back to Lenny with a decidedly swaggery head tilt.

"Well, yeah."

He ducks the second punch, spins around and gracefully lands a hard kick to Lenny's gut.

Lenny doubles over but recovers quickly, grabbing Spike and throwing him hard against the wall. He falls into the dresser, smashing the top drawer, knocking the TV over. It crashes to the ground with a thud.

I gasp, but he's back on his feet before I can register what's happened, in full vamp face, flying at the larger vampire in a flurry of punches and kicks that seem to land everywhere.

"Wolfram and Hart promised that Gem to me, _friend_." He emphasizes the last word with a sharp, bare footed kick to Lenny's jaw. "But thanks for stoppin' by. Haven't had a decent-" _uppercut_ "-spot of violence-" _jab, cross_ "in weeks."

He laughs giddily when Lenny swings round, tries to land a punch, and staggers back, clearly dizzy.

"Cheers, mate."

Spike brings his clasped hands up above his head, forearms together, and crashes them down with incredible force onto the back of Lenny's neck, sending the larger vampire to the ground in a heap.

Spike stands up straight, wipes the blood from his lip and tosses me a wink.

I watch him, slack jawed.

He walks over to the small desk, effortlessly wrenches one of the legs off and turns back to the groaning, Lenny-shaped puddle on the ground. He nudges him onto his back with his bare toe and, without preamble, shoves the splintered wooden leg down through his heart.

With a high pitched wail, Lenny convulses and disintegrates into a pile of dust.

"Ta," Spike lifts the wooden desk leg up, appraises it, twirls it deftly in his hand like a baton and tosses it over onto his bed.

I blink at him, stunned.

"Um," I search for words, can't find any, and settle on a small sounding "A-are you okay?"

He doesn't answer me as his bones shift back in place, and I find myself looking back at his human guise. He stares at me with heavy lidded blue eyes, chest heaving with unneeded breath. The heat from his gaze is burning a hole straight through me.

No one's ever looked at me the way he is now.

He looks _hungry_.

"Spike?" I try again.

He crosses the room in three long strides, threads his fingers into the hair at the base of my skull and crashes his lips onto mine.

I stand there, stunned, as he hauls me tighter against him, moving surprisingly gentle lips over mine.

He growls in the back of his throat, takes one hand out of my hair and splays his fingers possessively over the curve of my neck. His lips are smooth and cool and soft as they move against mine.

He pulls back slightly, takes my bottom lip between his blunt teeth and murmurs, "Kiss me back."

The demand has an instant effect.

I whimper, throwing my arms around his neck, opening my mouth to him when he glides his cool tongue over the seam of my lips. He groans, inhaling sharply, using his grip in my hair to tilt my head to the side and deepen the kiss.

And then his tongue is taking full possession of my mouth, his free hand roving from my neck, over my shoulder, down to the small of my back. He uses it to hold me against the solid wall of his chest, my nails digging little half-moons into his shoulders.

He tastes deliciously like cigarettes and smells like soap and - _oh, God_ \- his hand is teasing the skin at my waist, dipping below the waistband of my jeans...

I break the kiss with a squeak, jumping away from him and landing a solid, unplanned punch to his nose.

"Oi!" He steps back, rubbing his nose. "What'd you do that for?"

"I-I…." I try to answer him but can't make my lips move, they're still numb from his kisses. I reach a hand up to brush against them. I'm shaking.

I look down.

When did I start shaking?

Spike lowers his hand and looks at me, eyes taking in my flushed skin and wide eyes. He shakes his head, as though just remembering something.

"Right." He looks around the room for a moment, taking in the wrecked dresser, the upended TV, the battered door now hanging catty wampus from it's hinges.

"We gotta go. There'll be more coming." He reaches around me to grab his black duffle bag off the floor, stuffing the scattered clothes into it. He doesn't bother to put on a shirt, just shrugs the duster on and throws the bag over his shoulder, gestures for me to grab mine.

"More _what_ coming?" I ask, but move to my bed and pick up my bag as he's asked.

I grab a pair of cheap plastic sandals from the duffle and zip it, sliding them on just as Spike's grabbing my hand and pulling me out the door.

He doesn't say a word to me as we pull out of parking lot and careen back onto the highway, and I sit beside him silently playing back the events of the last hour.

Questions bounce around my brain, each adding another heaping layer on my already muddled brain.

"Who was that guy?" I finally ask, settling on a question I think I can handle.

Spike glances at me, then up to the rearview mirror. He looks like he's half expecting to see someone following us.

"Nobody." He says dismissively.

"Didn't look like nobody," I say, frowning at him. "Looked like you knew him."

"Know a lot of people, pet. Been around awhile."

I drop my gaze into my lap, staring at my folded hands. "Looked like he knew _me_." I rephrase my earlier statement.

"Doesn't matter. Gone now, innit he?"

I look up at him. "You said there'd be more."

He does that shifty eye up to the rearview again. "I did."

"He knew about Wolfram and Hart." I prod him, catching myself looking over into the side mirror. There's nothing but empty road and night sky behind us.

Spike sighs. "Buffy-"

"He knew where we were, Spike. He came right for us." I pause. "Right for _me_."

Had he been following us? And if so, for how long?

And how many more "others" could be following us right now?

 _"_ _You really think you'd be the only vampire Wolfram and Hart would tap?"_

The thought makes my blood run cold.

I shift in my seat, turning my body to face his profile.

"You said Wolfram and Hart made you a deal, Spike. _You_." I emphasize with a sharp jab to his arm.

"They _did_."

"Then what's with old Dusty the wonder boy back there?" I ask, jerking my thumb back behind me as Spike shifts his eyes to the rear view again. "And why do you keep _doing_ that?"

He growls and rolls his neck back, popping it.

"Took me a little longer than it should've to find you, alright?" He casts me a wary glance. "Your dad playin' Merlin and all that, casting new cloakin' charms every day, maskin' your scent-"

I grimace.

"Knew what I was lookin' for, yeah? Knew it when I'd found you." He shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "Just took me a bit to verify it. Went a little...over schedule."

I stare at him, baffled. "So?"

His glances at me, sardonic.

" _So_ , Wolfram and Hart aren't the most patient of blokes. Got their calendars and time tables, don't they?" He chuckles humorlessly. "Finally got tired a waitin' I guess. Must've made the rounds when I didn't check in." He pauses, furrows his brow. "Though they could've aimed a bit higher, if you ask me."

I lean back in my seat, closing my eyes. "You're a bounty hunter."

He scoffs. "Don't make it sound so tawdry, luv. Some right precious bounty, this is."

I open my eyes, twist my head toward him. "The gem?"

He gives an almost imperceptible nod.

"Why couldn't you just tell me that?"

He laughs out loud at that.

"Tell you what, pet? That one of the biggest nasties this side of the Atlantic has such a hard on for you they're offerin' sodding immortality to the vamp that brings you in? Do a lot to settle your nerves, that would."

I can't hold in the bitter laugh that escapes my lips. "Since when do you care about my _nerves_ , or anything else for that matter? Haven't you been telling me that over and over- that you _don't_ care? And vampires are already immortal! What do you need a stupid gem for?"

Spike's jaw ticks as he says through clenched teeth, "'S the bloody Gem of Amara, you daft bint."

I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated. "Like I'm supposed to know what _that_ means!"

Spike huffs, indignant, but his face relaxes.

"What I did back there to my ol' pal Lenny? Gem keeps that from happenin'. Sunlight, stakes, holy water- none of it works on the vamp who's wearin' it." He gets a dreamy look on his face and grins at me. "S' the bleeding Holy Grail."

I blink at him.

Wow. That _is_ kind of a big deal.

That's what Wolfram and Hart offered Spike in exchange for me?

That's what they offered Lenny?

And who knows how many more.

"Spike," my voice is small, having lost all the ire from a moment ago, "what do they want with me?"

There's a long silent moment before he looks over at me again. His expression is serious. I can't read what's in his eyes, can't see them, it's too dark. But I can feel them on me. The same heavy, hole-burning heat as before.

When he answers me, his voice holds the smallest hint of something that might be fear.

"I don't know, Buffy."

And this time, I believe him.

I groan in frustration, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands.

My wrist doesn't hurt at all anymore.

"Why did you kiss me?" I ask, suddenly needing to know. I move my hands away from my tired eyes to look at him.

He shrugs. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

I'm not sure what I'm expecting, but that isn't it.

"Oh. OK." I say, bristling.

Spike chuckles softly, and it only makes me bristle more. "No need to get shirty about it, luv."

" _Shirty_? I'm not shirty. Who's shirty?" I look over at him, note the bare skin beneath his duster. "Well, not you, I guess." I frown. "What does that even mean?"

"Bloody yanks." Spike mutters, reaching down to turn up the volume on the radio.

I watch his eyes do one last shifty move up to the mirror, then down again.

"Try and get some sleep, yeah? We'll have to stop soon." He narrows his eyes, squinting into the distance, looking at something I can't see. "Be sunrise before long."

My first impulse is to argue with him, it comes so naturally now.

But I just don't have the energy.

Tonight's influx of information has me buzzing, too wired to sleep, but still too tired and confused to engage in conversation.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool window, resolutely turning my thoughts to more pressing matters and away from the memory of Spike's lips against mine.

I huff loudly, fold my arms over my chest and re-situate in the seat.

It wasn't that good a kiss, anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

Another thirty minutes goes by before Spike pulls off the highway and on to a frontage road. We pull up to one of the four pumps at a tiny gas station. He parks the car and twists the key out of the ignition, and even though my eyes are closed, the rustling of his leather duster lets me know he's turned to face me.

"Need anythin'?"

I turn my head to face him, blinking my eyes open, pretending to have been asleep.

"No. Thanks."

He nods and hops out of the car without another word, slamming the door behind him. I watch him swagger into the gas station, still shirtless, duster billowing around his legs. I can faintly hear him humming as he disappears inside.

He returns ten or so minutes later, diet soda in one hand and a package of some kind of sugary snack cakes in the other. He tosses them into my lap through the open window and moves to the gas pump.

"How'd you pay for the gas?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me when he moves around to get back in the car.

"Pay?" He scoffs. "Pet, I haven't paid for anythin' in over a century."

I frown at him, stomach knotting, bringing the diet soda away from my lips.

He must see the look on my face because he quickly responds, "Relax, luv. Didn't off the checker."

My frown deepens, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Then how—" He cuts me off with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

I narrow my eyes and peer around him, looking into the wide windows of the gas station.

Sure enough, the fidgety little man standing behind the register is looking at Spike white faced and wide eyed, hand clasped to the bleeding wound on his neck, absolutely terrified.

But very much alive.

I turn back to Spike, gaping.

"What?"

"You drank from the cashier? Without killing him?"

"Catch and release." He says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

I'm still gaping. "You can feed without killing?"

"Course I can." He scoffs, as though it's obvious. "Not an animal. I do have some self-control, ya know."

I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

"Okay, well, not _a lot_ of self-control, but I can feed without killing." He sniffs. "Just haven't had reason to before, is all."

"And you have reason to now?" I ask, disbelieving.

There's a poignant pause as he looks at me, one eyebrow raised, blue eyes gleaming in the fluorescent lights from the gas station windows.

After a minute, he sighs, rolling his eyes. "Let's call it self-preservation, yeah? 'M rather fond of my wind pipe." He inclines his head toward me, meaningfully motioning to where I'd dug my forearm into his throat. "Besides, can't have you fallin' apart at the seams every bloody time I eat someone."

I stare at him for a minute, letting this all sink in.

"You want to feed without killing."

He rolls his eyes. "I don't _want_ to, but I can make it work. For now."

"Why?"

"Just sodding told you," he grits through clenched teeth, "can't have you a big blubberin' mess every time I have to feed. Bloody tiresome, that. Never stay on schedule then."

I lean back in my seat, eyeing him. "Thought we were already off 'schedule'?" I put the word in air quotes and tilt my head back the direction we came, indicating the fact that we're probably being pursued this very moment by more Wolfram and Hart recruits.

"Yeah, and I— that's exactly why— bloody well don't want to get more off than we are already, right? Got too much at stake here, with the Gem and all." He finishes in a rush, exhaling loudly. "Don't make a thing out of it."

I smile at him. A tiny, grateful quirk of my lips.

He's willing to go against his very nature. To make the rest of our time together easier.

On me.

Of course, he hasn't come right out and said it, so I could be wrong.

My smile falls.

And didn't he tell me not 24 hours ago that was something he _wouldn't_ do?

I stare at him and think back to my thoughts before, at the diner, again wondering if this weird dissonant behavior is a thing with every vampire, or if Spike's just a special case.

I'm leaning more toward the latter.

He gives me a devilish smirk when he sees he's stunned me speechless.

"Cat got your tongue, pet?" He purrs, reaching out to me and catching my chin between his thumb and index finger.

On contact, unbidden, my eyes fall to his lips.

No. _No, no, no._

"W-we should…keep moving." I say quickly, dragging my eyes away from his mouth. "Sunrise."

I make myself meet his gaze.

"Yeah."

But his eyes are on my lips, now.

He begins to lean forward, and warning bells sound in my head.

This is bad. A world of bad.

A giant, spinning, tilting-off-its-axis world of bad.

Making an effort not to murder people isn't _romantic_ , I remind myself. It isn't sweet. It isn't a nice gesture.

It definitely isn't an excuse to kiss the vampire.

The dead, evil, beautiful vampi—.

 _No! Stop it. He uses that beautiful face to lure people._

 _To their deaths._

Sobered, I jerk back, pulling my head out of Spike's grip and smacking his hand away as though it were poisonous.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask, hating that my voice sounds so breathy.

He blinks at me, raises a scarred eyebrow. "What's got your knickers twisted?"

I jab a finger at him. "You have absolutely zero effect on my knickers, pal."

 _Liar._

He raises both hands up, palms open in surrender, but his face is anything but innocent. "You've lost me, pet."

My God, he is _infuriating._

"What is your deal?" I ask, my voice accusing.

"What's my _dea_ l?"

"Oh, come on! This whole…" I wave my hand in his direction, "good vamp, bad vamp routine. It's wiggy. And nobody's buying it!"

He smirks, tilting his head. "Wiggy, is it?"

"Yes!" I shout, frustrated. "You bite me, and then you bring me orange juice." I tick each point off on my fingers. "You tell me that I'm food, and then refuse to drink from me when I ask you to. You say you're evil and that you're a killer, and then you go off and _don't_ kill people. You keep insisting that you don't care, but then you-" I flail my arms about wildly, " _do_ things. Like talk to me, and answer my questions, a-and kiss me, and…" I fade out, voice getting quiet and losing ire as I meet his eyes, "…look at me like that."

"Look at you like what, luv?" He asks, voice suddenly silken and soft.

The expression on his face is thoughtful, lips forming a pout, head still tilted just slightly. Everything about him seems softer in this moment. His cheekbones less angular, platinum hair dried in tousled curls instead of slicked back.

But it's his eyes.

Searing and searching and so, so blue. Overwhelming in their intensity, like they can read every thought that's going through my head. Like they see me more intimately than I can even imagine.

If the eyes are the window to the soul, what am I seeing when I look into Spike's?

I answer him without thinking.

"Like William."

He leans back away from me, blinking rapidly. Something hard passes over his face, and the moment is gone.

Before I know what's happened, the outright mocking leer returns, curling his lips. "Wasn't goin' to kiss you if that's what's got you all in a tizzy."

Oh.

" _Shyeah_ ," I scoff, laughing awkwardly, "I know that."

My face is burning.

"Just had something right…" He trails off, flicking his thumb in one rough, quick motion over the bottom of my chin. He pulls his hand back and shrugs. "'S gone now."

Oh, the nerve.

 _'_ _Just had something', my ass._

I swear my face is on fire.

I cross my arms, trying for indignant. "So you meant it? No more killy-biting?"

He shrugs. "For now."

I think about this for a second and decide it's better than nothing.

It's already more than I ever expected.

"We really should go." I say, sighing, turning back to face away from him. "Unless you wanna be southern fried vamp."

I hear him chuckle and put the key in the ignition. "Can make it as far as Denver tonight."

"I've always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains." I muse, breaking into the package of puffy white snack cakes as Spike pulls back onto the highway.

He laughs. "Won't see much of 'em, luv. It'll be dark."

"I've always wanted to _not_ see the Rocky Mountains." I amend snarkily, taking a bite, promptly gagging. "Spike, I can't eat these, they're pure sugar."

I toss the opened cake package onto the center console.

"Eat 'em anyway." He glances at me, eyes me up and down. "You're too skinny."

 _I am?_ "I am not!"

He scoffs. "Bollocks. Sodding skin 'n bone, you are."

I look down my body at the flat stomach, slim hips, thin thighs.

I know I'm skinny, I always have been, but I'm not _too_ skinny.

I tell Spike this, but find myself picking the package back up and finishing the cakes anyway.

 _"_ _There you are."_

 _It's Spike, dressed in his trademark all black, only a little more retro— lighter jeans, t-shirt covered in artfully arranged safety pins, covered by the leather duster. His hair is different, still peroxide blonde, but longer, a messy array of bleached spikes all over his head._

 _"_ _Been lookin' everywhere for you."_

 _We're standing face to face in a dark alleyway, the pavement glistening and damp. I can hear sirens whirring somewhere in the background._

 _"_ _Oh, yeah?" I look at him. Shrug. "Guess you found me."_

 _He takes a predatory step toward me, hands clasped behind his back, eyes smoldering._

 _"_ _Looks that way."_

 _I sigh, folding my arms over my chest. "Look, I really don't have time for this."_

 _Spike leers nastily. "Don't worry." He runs the tip of his tongue along his upper lip. "This won't take long."_

 _He shifts into vamp face and lunges for my throat._

"Buffy!"

My eyes fly open and Spike's leaning over me, hands on my shoulders, a bewildered expression on his face.

I blink at him. "Spike?"

I glance away from his face and look around. We're no longer driving, but inside another motel room. The lamp on the nightstand is on, casting an orange glow over both of us. I'm on top of the bedspread on another lumpy mattress, sweat drenched pillow beneath my head.

It was just a dream.

"You started shoutin'." He says, letting go of my shoulders and stepping away. "Bloody distracting. Bad dream?"

I frown, remembering, suddenly unsure. Is that really all it was?

"Um," I put the back of one hand on the side of my forehead. It's drenched in sweat. "Yeah. I guess so."

He nods but doesn't ask me anything else. He goes back to the ratty arm chair he must have been sitting in. There's a plastic cup half full with an amber colored liquid sitting on the TV stand beside it, the smell of cigarette smoke strong in the little room.

"What time is it?" I ask, looking down at my crumpled t-shirt and jeans. "And why didn't you wake me up to change?"

"You were knackered." He explains simply, wedging a fresh cigarette between his teeth and lighting it. "And a quarter past 3:00."

Judging by the light streaming in from beneath the drawn curtains, he doesn't mean 3:00 in the morning.

I sit up a little, rubbing the crick in my neck.

"You let me sleep for almost 12 hours?" I ask, surprised and irrationally irritated.

He just shrugs. "Tried to wake you when we got here, but you were good and dead to the world."

I look around the room again. "And where is here, exactly?"

"Some shit hole on the sodding Kansas border."

My heart sinks.

"I missed the mountains?"

Spike laughs, taking a deep drag off the cigarette and exhaling. "Yeah, all those exciting black blobs way off in the distance. Tragedy, that."

I sit up in bed, pushing my hips backwards to lean my shoulders against the wooden veneer headboard.

"Might've been my last chance to see them." I say quietly, giving voice to a thought I've had about a million times since that first horrible night in the back of Spike's car. Even though I'm pretty sure at this point that it won't be Spike won't be doing the killing, it doesn't mean I have a lot of confidence that I'll escape this whole thing alive.

Has it really only been three nights since we sat across from each other in that restaurant? Only two nights since he showed me what he really is? Only hours since we were attacked?

Since the kiss?

On one hand it seems like no time at all.

On the other, a lifetime should have passed for how much older I feel.

"Don't do that." Spike says, pulling the cigarette out and staring at it.

I blink, realizing I'd zoned out. "Don't do what?"

"The pessimistic bit. It's bollocks." He looks up at me and leans back in the chair, cigarette held loosely between his index and middle finger. "Already told you. If the boys at Wolfram and Hart wanted you dead, that's what the bounty'd be for. It isn't. Whatever it is they want you for, you're worth more alive than dead."

I fold my hands and place them in my lap.

"Yeah, maybe. At first."

"Bollocks." He says firmly, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. "So you gonna tell me what this dream was about, then?"

I look down at my hands. "Why do you care?"

But the predictable "I don't" response I'm expecting doesn't come.

"Interrupted my 'me time', you did. Had to put out my cigarette to wake you up, wasted the whole bloody thing."

"What a shame." I snap sarcastically, looking up.

"Plus, 'm bored." Spike smirks at me, folds his arms up behind his head and leans back, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. "Entertain me."

"Entertain yourself." I fix him with a sickly sweet smile.

He does that tongue curling thing. "Naughty girl."

"You wish."

"I do indeed."

"God, you're _such_ a—"

"Pig?"

"Yes!"

"Am not," he counters, grinning around the cigarette. "I'm charmingly rakish."

"What does gardening have to do with anything?"

"Not a blessed thing." He laughs at me, taking one last drag off his cigarette before stubbing it out on the TV stand and picking up his drink. He lifts it toward me. "Fancy another round, pet?"

I shudder. "A world of no."

"What, no more questions?"

I start to pick absently at a loose thread on the bedspread. "You wouldn't answer them, anyway."

"I dunno, luv. Feelin' awfully chatty just now."

"Because you're bored."

"Maybe." He considers me with a head tilt. "Maybe I have some questions of my own."

"Alright." I say, fixing him with a hard look. "What did Wolfram and Hart say to you about me?"

He sighs impatiently. "Already told you, I don't know what they want."

"No," I draw the word out, then sound the rest out slowly, "what did they say _about_ me. About who I-…who Elizabeth Manners was?"

He gets a funny look on his face before abruptly grabbing his cup and downing the liquid inside.

"See?" I ask, gesturing to the empty cup. "Not a good game if it's one sid-"

"They told me who your mum was."

I stare at him, blinking slowly. "My mom?"

He stands up and crosses to the nightstand beside me, where the half empty whiskey bottle sits. He pours himself another round and downs it, immediately pours another.

"Said that's how I'd know how to find you. Recognize you _when_ I found you, rather."

I sit there looking at him, letting his words sink in. Is he actually going to tell me something?

"Y-you…you knew my mom?"

He doesn't look at me. Grits his teeth, clenches and unclenches his jaw, the muscles in his neck twitching.

"Didn't _know_ her. Met her. Once or twice."

I pull my legs up to my chest, wrap my arms around them, letting the implications of that sink in.

"So…my mom knew about vampires?"

Spike lets out a high pitched, maniacal giggle. "You could say that."

He abandons his cup in favor of drinking straight from the bottle.

"What do you mean, 'you could say that'?" I repeat snippily, tired of the crypto boy routine.

He rolls his eyes. "Bloody hell. _Yes_ , she knew about vampires."

I'd already guessed as much from our conversation the night Spike bit me, but having it laid out so plainly is both unsettling and a relief.

I press on, encouraged by his response.

"When did you meet her?"

This is the third question in a row I've asked about my mom, but I figure since Spike's the one who brought her up, our little "I'll answer one question" rule is sort of out the window.

He thinks about it for a bit before answering.

"Awhile back, in the 80s or round abouts. In New York."

I do the math.

"I was already born when you met her, then."

He takes an extra-long pull from the whiskey bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah."

"Did she work for Wolfram and Hart?"

"Not even close, pet." He laughs again, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette. "Your mum was a slayer."

And there it is. No preamble, no dramatic pause, no soul-searching eyes. He just lays it out there, plain as you please. One simple statement. Like it isn't a huge deal. Like it isn't the biggest news I've probably ever gotten.

Like it doesn't change everything.

" _What_?"


	11. Chapter 11

" _What_?"

Spike enunciates each word very slowly. "Your mum, Joyce? She was a slayer."

My stomach drops.

My mom was a vampire slayer.

My mom was a _vampire slayer_?

"No." I say, shaking my head, wanting to laugh. "No way. There's no way." I rack my brain, trying to conjure what memories I can of her. There isn't much, I'd only been about six at the time, but what I do remember doesn't fit with anything Spike's told me about slayers. "You're making this up, right? It's a joke?" I scramble off the bed, come up in front of him, finger jabbing hard into his chest. "Did _they_ tell you to say this?"

Spike doesn't move toward me, but doesn't move away either. His face is impassive, almost resigned.

"No, luv. They didn't tell me to say this." He pauses, considering, takes a drag off the cigarette and turns his head to exhale away from me. "Opposite, in fact."

I blink up at him, frowning.

"They told you _not_ to tell me?"

He nods. "Part of the deal. Need you alive, and don't want you knowin' anything."

I take a step back from him. "Why not?"

"That, I don't know. Was serious when I said I only know what they tell me." He gestures absently with the cigarette, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "Which ain't much."

I sit back down on the mattress edge, shoulders slumped.

"My mom was a slayer." I murmur, testing the sentence out on my tongue. Feels about as weird as I expect it to.

I lean my head down to rest in the palm of my hands.

"Bloody good one, too." Spike offers.

I peek up at him through my fingers. He's sitting across from me on his mattress, legs spread, resting his forearms over his thighs. He's removed the leather duster.

"You said you met her?" I ask, dropping my hands away.

He nods, raising the cigarette again to his lips.

"Did you...I mean, did she and you…" I pause, frustrated, searching for the right words. I sigh, closing my eyes. "Did you fight her?"

It's only after I ask the question that I realize I'm probably not prepared for the answer, or the inevitable questions that will follow.

 _Did you seek her out?_

 _Was she one of your slayers?_

 _Did you kill my mom?_

When I open my eyes again, I'm surprised to see Spike leaning toward me, his face only a few inches away from mine. He looks at me with that impossibly earnest, soul-searing expression, and I the breath catches in my throat.

"Yeah." He says, searching my face. "I—we did. Couple'a times." Then a slow smirk curves one corner of his mouth. "She was bloody magnificent, luv. One of the best."

He sounds almost irreverent.

I have to look away from those eyes to ask my next question.

"Was it you, then?" I ask, remembering the way he'd looked at me the other night. After I'd asked about my mom.

Asked him if it had been a vampire.

"No." He says immediately. "It wasn't me."

I don't know if I believe him or not.

I do know I probably shouldn't.

But the way he's looking at me, all wide eyed and open…and I don't have the energy in me to fight him. Not when he's the only person I've ever met who can give me real, honest to God answers about my mom.

And by extension, about me.

I don't trust him. But he's all I've got.

"Why'd you decide to tell me?" I ask, picking at the chipping pink nail polish on my pinky nail. "You broke the rules."

He raises an eyebrow. "Maybe you haven't noticed pet, but I'm not exactly one for rule followin'."

I laugh a little, hollowly. "I've noticed. Hence the wigginess."

"Bloody menace to the English language, you are." He gripes, standing up, reaching out for the whiskey bottle. I notice he's somehow lost the cigarette again.

"My mom was a vampire slayer." I try again, and this time it isn't quite so much with the bizzare. In a way, it kind of makes sense.

Ya know, in the same way my life's been making sense for the past four days.

Spike wordlessly hands me the whiskey bottle. I take it from him.

"Takin' it a mite better than I thought you would." He muses, again sitting down on the mattress across from me.

I bring the bottle to my lips and take as long a pull as I can manage and gag, making a disgusted sound.

 _Ew._

He laughs. "Or maybe not."

I'm still grimacing when I hand it back to him. "I don't know how you can stand to drink that crap."

"I don't know how you can stand not to." He counters with a grin.

I smirk at him, whiskey starting to burn headily in my chest and belly.

He takes another swig and passes it back to me. I stare at it in my hand. "I still can't believe my dad never told me. He never told me _any_ of this." I gesture around us, encompassing the entire situation.

I take another swig.

 _Yeeeeaaaguh_.

"My whole life's been a lie."

Spike watches me, an amused half-smile on his face. "Just tryin' to keep you safe, pet."

I glare, gesturing emphatically towards him and all his vampyness. "Yeah, because that worked out so well."

"S'not your pap's fault I'm a bloody genius." He preens, putting both hands down behind him on the bed and leaning back.

I roll my eyes. "Because it takes a genius to figure out that a single girl will tell just about anything to a sweet, good looking guy."

He looks down, away from me, then back up slowly. "Do you prefer William to me?"

I balk, staring at him like he's just asked me to tap dance naked on the nightstand.

At a loss, head buzzing with alcohol, I give up trying to guess his motivation for asking and simply answer, "Does it matter?"

"Indulge me."

The words and his husky tone send a tingle down my spine.

 _No._

"I don't know, Spike." I shake my head, laughing at myself. "It's a moot point anyway. William isn't _real_."

"Yes, he is."

I blink up at him. "What?"

"William is as real as you are." He sits up, leaning his arms onto his thighs again. He studies my face a moment before continuing, "He's me, Buffy."

And again with the _what_?

Spike's shaking his head, muttering almost to himself. "Or he was me, before."

I stare at him, trying to process, already over capacity on the information overload meter. The whiskey isn't helping.

This hasn't ever occurred to me before. Even when I thought Spike was human, I assumed he'd just been acting. Playing a part.

And even after I learned the truth, apart from a few brief glimpses of their similarities, it never occurred to me that William and Spike could be...what? The same person?

Variations of the same person?

The monster and the man.

"You kept saying I was pretending to be William, pretending to be something I wasn't." He's still speaking softly, more to himself than me. "But I...Jesus. Been over a hundred years but that wanker—" He closes his eyes, exhaling. "Guess he's not as good and buried as I thought."

I interrupt his thoughts, still trying to wrap my mind around what he's saying. "So…you're William?"

He looks over at me with an expression that reads at once exasperated and tortured.

"No, Buffy. I'm…Spike, and William, and…I don't know how to explain it. Spike, William, the Demon…they're all here, yeah?" He punctuates "here" by pressing two fingers to his temple. "They're all _me_."

He stands up abruptly, a growl erupting from his throat. He turns from me, runs a shaking hand through his hair, then turns back. "There's the demon, the monster. And there's William, whatever's left of my…humanity. Who I am…Spike…Spike's somewhere in the middle."

I don't like the way he's looking at me now.

"But…you can still be William?" I ask slowly, carefully, thinking back to those weeks before all this. How effortlessly he'd convinced me that he was something other than a blood thirsty demon. "If you try?"

"I—maybe." He looks away from me, starting pace, voice low. "Maybe what you said is true. If I _want_ it…" He laughs darkly. "Or maybe he just never went away, not really. I don't know."

I think about what he's said. "Is it like…hearing voices?"

He stops pacing, asks me bitterly, "Is your conscience like hearing voices?"

"Is that what it's like then? Your conscience?"

"No." He shakes his head, frustrated, bemused. "No, that's not it either…buggering _fuck_ , I don't know." He scrubs his hands wearily over his face. "I'm drunk."

Everything's quiet for a minute. I feel the urge to get up and go to him hit me out of nowhere, some strange need to comfort him that I don't like. Before I can tamp it down completely or worse, act on it, I hear him.

"It's you." He whispers darkly, not looking at me. "It's all your bloody fault."

He turns fully toward me. "It's like I look at you…and I _feel_ things." He emphasizes the word with a hand splayed across his chest. "Things I don't _want_ —things I'm not supposed t—" He breaks off with a loud snarl, smashing his hand into the wall. Plaster flutters down from the hole he's left, and he stands there for a second, breathing raggedly.

Then he whips around to face me, eyes flashing, hunched forward in a predatory stance. "What have you _done_ to me?"

This is the first time in nearly two days I've been afraid of him.

I jump off the bed and move backwards, bumping into the nightstand, knocking the lamp over. I reach behind me, fumbling, until my hand lands around the neck of the whiskey bottle. I bring it in front of me, prepared to use it as a weapon.

 _Too bad it isn't a wooden whiskey bottle, you idiot._

Spike's advancing on me, slow predatory step after slow predatory step.

His eyes are black.

"The demon…it wants your blood." He leans forward slightly, prowling. I instinctively try to move away, but there's nowhere for me to go.

"William, the ruddy ponce," he barks a harsh laugh, "wants to write you poetry."

His eyes flash as he takes another lithe, measured step. He's directly in front of me now. My hands are shaking. I try to raise the bottle up, get some leverage, but my body isn't cooperating with my brain.

I'm paralyzed.

"And I…" He trails off, looking down at me with dark, glazed eyes. His chest is heaving, touching mine with every sharp inhale. "Fuck it."

He puts both his hands on my face and drags my lips to his.

It isn't like last time.

Spike doesn't wait for me to respond. Doesn't ask me to kiss him back. He plunders my mouth with his, forcing me to yield to him, all cool tongue and blunt teeth and soft lips. Removing one hand from my face, tunneling it in my hair, he pours every ounce of frustration and heat and hatred and desire into the kiss. Inhaling me, drinking me in, like there's nothing else in the world but this.

I kiss him back without thinking, without even knowing what I'm doing. Pure instinct.

I drop the whiskey bottle with a thud and move to place my hands on his face. One hand slides up and into the soft, un-gelled curls, and I moan into his mouth, twirling a lock of platinum hair around my finger.

Spike makes a sound, something between a growl and a whimper, and then his hands are underneath me, cupping my butt through my jeans, lifting my feet off the floor. I clutch at him, free hand winding around his neck. One of his hands slides from butt to the back of my thigh. He taps it once, murmurs "around me" against my lips.

I comply, wrapping both legs around his waist, locking my ankles together at the small of his back. The contact this new position provides has me breaking the kiss, throwing my head back.

" _Oh_." I breathe, securing both arms around his neck. "Oh, God."

Spike's lips are at my ear, his hands bruising as he presses me against him. He traces the curve of my ear lobe with his tongue, then takes it into his mouth, nibbling and sucking. I gasp when he speaks, breath tickling my skin, voice husky and deep. "Move with me, kitten."

I move my head so I can see his face. He looks almost as far gone as I feel.

I dimly wonder how much of this is the whiskey, but decide it doesn't matter when Spike shifts me down, pressing his arousal harder against my center.

Dazed, heavy lidded, I feel my body reacting to his. It seems to know what to do without me even telling it to. I press myself against him, breasts smashed into his chest, moving my hips in slow, undulating circles.

"That's it," he purrs, nipping at my ear, "just like that—Oh, _hell_ —Buffy…"

 _No._ I think desperately _, No, no, no. World of bad, remember?_

But my body is starting to shake, leg muscles gripping his hips as I writhe wantonly against him, desperately seeking more friction. There's a slow heat building in my belly that I've never experienced before. Delicious, white hot, and I need to be kissing him again. I turn my head blindly toward him, where his lips had been at my ear, and capture his mouth with mine. He gives me a gasping, groaning sound of raw need, gripping my hips and thrusting his jean-clad arousal harder against me. Every hair on the back of my neck prickles.

He spins us around and removes his hands from my hips, dropping me down onto the bed. I don't have a chance to ask him what he's doing before his hands are on my knees, wedging them apart, gliding long fingers slowly down the insides of my thighs. My whole body feels like its vibrating as I lay back on my elbows, gasping, watching him watching me.

How did we get here again? I can't remember. I can't think.

He splays both hands over the spot on either side where my legs meet my hips, kneading the skin through the jeans with strong, nimble fingers. His draws his thumbs up slowly, brushing them over the sensitive, denim covered flesh between my legs. I convulse beneath him, gasping, trying and failing to remember exactly why I shouldn't be doing this.

"Spike." I murmur weakly, breathlessly, unable to take my eyes off his face.

He leans forward and removes his thumbs, replacing them with his nose. He rubs it back and forth against the same, tender spot, inhales deeply, letting out a shuddering sigh. " _Fuck_ , but you smell amazing." He closes his eyes, extends his tongue. I watch, mesmerized, as he runs the wet, pointed tip lengthwise up the middle seam of my jeans. He stops near the top, right at my most sensitive spot, and sucks the material into his mouth, moaning.

Just this tiny hint. Just the pressure of his tongue there, even through layers of clothing, combined with his hands and the whiskey and the kisses and his smell—it's almost enough.

But then Spike's moving again, crawling up my body like a panther, pushing my hips open with his knee. He settles himself over me, and I shift without thought to cradle him between my legs.

Logic is fighting lust for its rightful place in the forefront of my mind, but it's being overruled by Spike's lips as he presses into me from above, undulating his hips. Touching every corner of my mouth with his delicious, nicotine laced tongue. He's taking deep breaths in through his nose, inhaling and groaning with every renewed effort. He might as well be sucking the oxygen out of my lungs for how lightheaded I feel.

He pulls back to look at me.

"Drive me mad, you do." He whispers, swooping back in to nibble my lips.

And then he's kissing and nipping a trail from my lips to my jaw, from my jaw to my ear. "Please, Buffy," he whispers against my skin, "let me."

I feel his hand on the clasp of my jeans, twisting it expertly with two fingers. It pops open.

I whimper.

"Sweet Buffy." He murmurs, laving the sensitive spot below my ear with his tongue. He moves down my neck, emphasizing each word with an open mouthed kiss. "Sweet, hot, gorgeous little Buffy."

Logic rears back, backhanding lust across the face when I feel his fingers again dipping below the waistband of my jeans. I press my hands to his chest, preparing to push him off, when he suddenly jerks away from me.

He sits up, staring at me like I've just burned him. His eyes are still lost to lust, but his expression is one of disbelief. And possibly anger.

I shrink away from him, remembering everything he said leading up to the bone melting, rational thought losing kiss. But he doesn't come near me. Instead, he scrambles backwards, nearly falling off the bed.

I drop my hands to the waistband of my jeans and hurriedly do up the button, flushing red with embarrassment and bright hot disappointment. I'm in the process of trying to straighten my shirt when he speaks again.

"You bloody minx," he breathes, "when were you going to tell me?"

I look up at him, still dazed, face burning. "Tell you what?"

He points at me, gesturing toward my neck. "The bite mark. It's gone."

My hand flies to my throat, feeling for the puncture wounds his vicious bit had left there. In all the excitement over the past 24 hours, I hadn't given them much thought. Sure enough, where I'd felt two healing holes just the other night, there's nothing now but two faint bumps that are probably no more than white scars.

I bring my hand to the other side of my neck, remembering the non-existent cigarette burn.

I look up to him. "Yeah."

He's on me in an instant, hands wrapped around my arms, pulling me to my feet in front of him. "It healed in two _days_?"

I don't know why he seems so freaked out, but it's starting to freak _me_ out.

"Answer me!" He shouts in my face, shaking me.

"Yes!" I shout back, remembering my thoughts from that morning in the bathroom. "A-and the cigarette burn, too. Both of them."

His eyes narrow. "And your wrist."

I nod.

He growls and lunges toward my neck.

Panicking, I bring my fist back and pop him hard in the bridge of his nose.

"Bloody hell!" He snarls, falling away from me. "What was that for?"

I point an accusing finger at him. "You were going for my neck!"

"I was _going_ to look at the mark, you twit." He rubs his hand against the spot where I hit him, and his expression grows cloudy.

Wordlessly, he moves to stand in the center of the room, a devilish gleam in his eye.

"Come here." He says, pointing to the space in front of him.

I scoff. " _No_."

"Buffy."

Without thinking I do as he says, moving to stand beside him.

"Hit me."

"What?" I laugh out loud.

"Hit me, Buffy." He says again, squaring his shoulders. "Right here."

He points to the bridge of his nose, where my fist connected a moment ago.

I gape at him. "Why?"

He rolls his eyes, but he's bouncing a little on his heels. "Just do it."

I plant my hands on my hips. "I'm not going to hit you, Spike."

"You did just that not two minutes ago."

"Yeah, when you deserved it!"

"Deserved it, did I? For getting near your precious neck?" He leers. "Or are you just embarrassed about that bitch in heat impression."

I raise an eyebrow at him, fist curling reflexively. "You can't goad me into hitting you, Spike."

He smirks at me, flicks his hand out and tweaks one of my nipples through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.

"Hey!" I shout, fist coming up automatically to smash into his nose.

He stumbles back a little ways, places the heel of his hand against his nose, and laughs.

I glare at him.

"Oh, yeah." He chuckles.

He dabs at the blood pooling beneath his nose with his wrist, licks it off.

 _Ewww._

"Okay, that's it. What's going on, Spike?" I demand, crossing my arms over my chest.

He's still laughing, but there's no more blood coming out of his nose. He brings his red-stained hand down, wiping it on his jeans.

"You telegraph your punches." He tells me, smirking. "Drop your shoulder just before you swing."

I'm staring at him like he's sprouted two heads.

"I don't make a habit of hitting people, Spike. Don't have a lot of practice."

He shakes his head, grinning. "Don't need it. You're a natural."

 _Huh?_ "Huh?"

"Like mother, like daughter." He shakes his head again, getting that wistful look on his face. Then he drops his voice, starting to pace, talking more to himself than me. "Same bloody spot and everythin'."

The mention of my mom has me reaching forward, gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him. I make him look at me. "Spike!"

He finally speaks, breaking through the clutter in my mind, and his voice is a strange mixture of amusement and something that sounds a lot like trepidation.

"You're strong, Buffy."

I frown, look down at my spaghetti thin arms, then back to him.

"Like, mentally?"

He barks a laugh, but ignores my question. "Not slayer strong," shakes his head, "not nearly, but stronger than your average bird oughtta be."

My thoughts race a mile a minute, synapses firing, trying to make sense of what he's saying.

Not slayer strong, but stronger than average….how strong does that make me? How strong is average?

Spike doesn't give me a chance to ask.

"I knew it. Knew somethin' was different. Knew there had to be. I smelled it on you the second I—God, Buffy, I _tasted_ it. And you—I shoulda known. But it…'s not supposed to happen. Never heard of it happenin'. Can't be why." He's shaking his head again, lost to his rambling.

Then, under his breath, "Unless..."

I've had about enough of this one sided conversation.

"Spike," I hiss through clenched teeth, "if you don't start explaining to me what the hell is going on right now, I swear to God—"

He looks at me, a wide grin spreading over his face. "I think I just solved the mystery, luv."

I search his eyes, understanding dawning in mine. "You think you know why Wolfram and Hart wants me?"

His grin widens, turns wicked.

"I got an idea, yeah."


	12. Chapter 12

"So…you're saying, what? I'm some sorta freaky slayer/human hybrid?" I frown at Spike, rubbing my temples.

"No," he says, sounding frustrated, "I'm sayin' you have some slayerish qualities. You're not slayer strong, and you don't heal quite as fast, but it's there. Something's different."

I bring my hands away from my face, looking up at him.

"And you think Wolfram and Hart knows that I'm some sorta freaky slayer/human hybrid?"

He sighs but doesn't correct me. "I _think_ they know a helluva lot more than we do."

"Ugh." I pout. "I have a mystery solving headache."

We've been going in circles like this for the last hour, and I can practically feel my brain sizzling.

Like bacon.

I'm also starving.

Spike shakes his head, fidgeting, pacing back and forth in front of me.

"I'm just sayin'…" He trails off, gesticulating with one hand. "Your mum was a slayer." Then the other. "Your dad was a regular bloke." He shrugs. "Innit the 'what' but the 'how' I'm havin' trouble wrappin' my lobes around."

I drop my chin into my hands. "Kinda both for me."

He turns to face me, both hands loosely on his hips, pulling the duster slightly away from his body.

I've realized that Spike uses the long coat almost like a security blanket. He wears it well, like a second skin, but whenever he reaches for it it's almost always when he wants to feel more in his element. He'd reached for it and put it back on immediately after our mini-revelation earlier.

I'm still not sure if it was in reaction to finding out that something freaky's happening to me or to the…stuff that happened just before.

Maybe both.

My face flushes as I remember lying beneath him on the bed, feeling his weight against me. Possessive hands on my waist, the heady scent of leather and whiskey, his lips at my neck…

And did I seriously let a _vampire_ get that close to my neck?

Mom would probably be ashamed.

"Not sure what's so tough for you to puzzle." Spike says, continuing to pace. "I'd think it'd all be makin' a right bit of sense out of some things."

I look at him, shaking my head to clear it of the mental images of his head between my legs.

 _Stop it._

My face is still hot.

"How you figure?"

He snorts, as though it should be obvious. "'M sure you were all kinds of special growin' up. Had broken bones as a kid, all healed faster than normal? Never got sick either, I'd wager. Probably never met a jar of paste you could'n open."

I'm sitting on the bed, staring down at my hands, trying to remember if anything he's saying rings a bell.

It doesn't.

I hadn't been an exceptional child. In any way.

I was always a happy kid, liked the things most girls my age did, never caused any trouble. I got a sinus infection about once a year, broke my nose twice while at summer camp, got decent grades all through school and was generally just pretty unremarkable.

I never told anyone, but I always thought maybe that was what had made mom leave. My lack of specialness.

I feel a sharp pang in my chest for the second time tonight.

 _She didn't leave,_ I remind myself _. She was taken._

"No."

It takes Spike raising his scarred eyebrow at me before I realize I've spoken out loud.

"No," I say again, a little louder, "none of that's true."

Now he looks about as confused as I feel.

"So—"

"I was a normal kid, Spike." I say, sighing. I shift on the mattress, pulling my knees up to my chin. "Normal teenager. Normal adult." I shrug. "Average. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Nothing special."

He looks at me in a funny way that makes my face heat up all over again.

"Hard to picture, that. You as anything other than what you are now."

Now it's my turn to look confused.

"And that would be what?"

He doesn't answer me. Goes back to pacing, muttering under his breath like he's doing some sort of complicated math problem.

"It didn't start when you were a kid then?"

I shake my head. "I can't remember anything 'starting' at all. The first time I noticed anything remotely…'slayery' happening was the other day, in the bathroom."

"When you noticed the bite mark?"

I nod.

"And the cigarette burn?"

I nod again, but tilt my head, curious at the tone of voice he's using.

Like he's hesitant to bring up the wounds that he'd caused.

He paces another minute or so before stopping and whirling to face me, duster billowing around his legs.

"Maybe I'm wrong." He says, finally. "Maybe you're actually part demon and the whole thing has nothing to do with your mum. You sure your dad was all human?"

We've gone down this road before, he's asked me this same question at least twice. We've discussed several options, writing down all the potential "what kind of freak is Buffy" possibilities on a piece of motel stationary as we go. So far our list is mostly scribbles. At one point I suggested radioactive spider bites.

That one didn't make the list.

The one possibility we keep coming back to, the one Spike's most convinced of, is that I've somehow inherited some of my mom's slayer abilities.

"Yes," I sigh, leaning back on my hands, "I'm sure."

"Right, s'just…slayer's calling? Not hereditary. Least, s'not supposed to be."

I shrug my shoulders, scrub my hands down my face, tired of the constant back and forth. "Aren't there like, records or something? Secret diaries? Memoirs of other slayer's kids?"

I'm half kidding, but Spike stops pacing to look at me.

"Dunno. Most slayers don't live long enough to even think about having kids, let alone actually get round to it." He pauses, thinks for a minute, then snaps his fingers. "But that doesn't mean none of 'em did." He grins, bouncing on his heels. "One slayer I offed, back in the 70s. Snapped her neck. _She_ had a kid, 'm pretty sure."

I wince at his words, stomach twisting. "Spike."

It's even more difficult than before for me to think about the slayers Spike's killed now that I know about my mom. So far I've dealt with it by not dealing with it, but I have a feeling I can only avoid thinking about it for so long.

"What?" He asks, looking confused. "I'm not talkin' about _your_ mum."

"No," I counter, folding my arms, "You're talking about someone else's."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "So?"

I shake my head at him. "They weren't even people to you, were they? They were _trophies_."

Spike narrows his eyes at me. "They were adversaries. Worthy opponents. I treated 'em like it."

I feel my face heat again, but this time with anger.

I glare up at him. "It's _disgusting_ when you do that. Talk about killing them like….like you did them a favor."

He just looks at me for a minute, as though deciding what to say. Then, very quietly, "I did."

I snort in disgust. "Yeah, Big Bad vampire doing the poor little slayers a favor. By _killing_ them." I raise my hand in a mock salute. "Right."

Spike comes at me, dropping to his knees in front of me with a growl, face inches from mine. His eyes aren't angry, though. They're seeking.

When he speaks, his voice is low and soft.

Hypnotic.

"You imagine what it's like, Buffy." His fingers come up to wrap around my ankles. "You're young. You're untested. You've got the weight of the whole sodding world on your shoulders. You face the darkest of the dark, fight the fiercest of evil. Day after day. It never stops. And you know that one day, _no matter what_ , that evil's gonna catch you."

I'm completely mesmerized, both by what he's saying and the way he's saying it. The combination of his hypno-eyes and his feather light touch and the heady scent of cigarettes and leather has me swaying slightly to the cadence of his voice.

"Slayer can take out the very armies of hell itself and still all it takes is for one us," his fingers grip my ankles harder as he emphasizes the word, "just _one_ , to slip in. Every day you wake up wonderin' if this is it. If today's the day you die. You wanna live like that, pet? Want to be shadowed by death?"

His grip on my ankles loosens, and I let him pull my legs down until my feet are flat on the floor in front of him. He shifts himself up and puts his hands on either side of my hips, holding eye contact with me until he slips to the side, ghosting soft lips up to my ear.

"I gave them peace, Buffy." He breathes against my skin. "And they let me." He nudges me with his nose. "They _wanted_ me to."

His words, the feel of his body so close to mine, has my head spinning.

In a fit of panic, needing to get away from him, needing space to breathe, I put both palms flat on chest and shove as hard as I can.

Spike flies backward and crashes hard into the wall, leaving a dent. He lands in a heap on the floor, little bits of plaster fluttering around his head and shoulders like snowflakes.

I stare down at my hands, horrified.

He's chuckling when he looks up at me, a wicked glint in his eye. "But I guess you'll be seein' that soon enough."

The tone of his voice has the hair on the back of my neck standing up, my hands curling reflexively into fists. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Gettin' stronger by the hour, luv." He cocks his head to the side. "Way I figure it, if you _are_ part slayer, Wolfram and Hart won't be the last of your problems. How long you think it'll take before someone else comes calling?"

I blink at him. "Someone else?"

He shakes his head, still chuckling. "Wolfram and Hart are just one side of the coin, yeah?" He presses his back up against the wall, propping his arms up on his bent knees. "Imagine the Council'll have it out for you sooner or later."

 _The Council?_

"Is that a Star Wars reference?"

"That'd be the Senate."

"Oh."

"Council of Watchers," he pauses, "well, more like Council of wankers. Big with the Slayer rulebook, they are. In charge of handlin' the slayers, watchin' over 'em after they get called, keepin' the sticks lodged firmly up their arses." He waves a dismissive hand. "Bloody bureaucrats. Point is, if 'm right, you'll have a hell of a lot more to worry about than just some stodgy old lawyers."

Anger fading, I'm back in the land of the dazed and confused.

"And...I should be worried about the council?"

He snorts. "Only if you value your life and hate the idea of being someone else's bloody puppet."

I frown, standing up.

"Why would they come after me?" I ask, feeling like I already know the answer but not wanting to hear it.

"A half slayer that proves their precious calling can be passed down from one generation to the next? I imagine they'd have all kinds of fun in store for you, pet."

The way he says the word "fun" lets me know he doesn't mean pizza and a teen movie fest. I begin to pace the length of the floor, my mind going automatically to images of needles and shining silver instruments and test tubes–the things I'd seen done in school to pigs and other small animals.

"Experiments?" I ask, voice small.

"For a start." He pushes himself to his feet, brushing off the leather duster as he does. "Only a matter a time before they train you up. Force you to fight. Only thing better than the sodding Chosen One is a not-so-chosen one who packs the same punch, is just as expendable and far less important."

I don't know if he's telling me the truth or not. There's the possibility he's just trying to scare me. It's working.

"They can't do that. I'm not a slayer. I didn't even know my mom was one. I didn't know they _existed_ until two days ago!" I'm pacing wildly, feeling the hysteria rising with every step. "A-and we don't know that's what's happening! It could be anything. You don't know—"

His hands on my shoulders cause me to stop short.

"Calm down," he murmurs, searching my face. He lets go of me and leans back, reaching into his duster pocket for a cigarette. "Besides, council innit offerin' the Gem of Amara for you."

I blink up at him, stunned.

"W-what?"

He exhales the cigarette smoke from his previous drag and gestures vaguely to the east. "Wolfram and Hart's got the bounty, don't they?"

My head's starting to spin. I move to sit down on the mattress, hand going up to press against my temple.

"You're still taking me to them."

It isn't a question.

"Well, yeah." He says, but his voice has lost the assuredness from before.

My eyes start to burn, and I squeeze them shut. There's no way I'm going to start crying now. Not now.

"Oh." I manage, but my voice cracks.

There's a brief pause before Spike speaks again. "What's wrong?"

I want to laugh at the question, it's so obvious.

Instead, I say "Nothing."

I feel the mattress shift and I know he's sat down beside me. It's very quiet for a moment. I only open my eyes when I feel cool hands on either side of my face, turning my head toward him.

He's doing that thing where I swear he's looking straight into my mind.

"They're not gonna kill you, luv."

I blink at him, taken in by the blue of his eyes a second too long before pulling away.

"You don't know that." I snap. And then, because for some reason I just need him to know, "And that's not what's wrong."

His brow furrows, like he's solving a difficult puzzle. "Then what-"

I shake my head at him, torn somewhere between wanting to laugh and wanting to punch him in the nose again. I can see it on his face that really doesn't understand.

And why would he?

 _Evil, soulless thing. He's told you a million times._

"I'm not upset about them." I stand up and walk away from him, stopping only when I'm standing right in front of the motel door. "I'm upset about _you_."

It's still light outside. I can see the sun peeking beneath the heavy drapes.

"Me?" He asks, bewildered. "What about me?"

I turn around to look at him, taking in his confused expression, feeling the most overwhelmed and alone I think I ever have before. More than the first night in the car. More than the night he bit me. More than even a few hours ago.

I don't have an answer for him. Not a good one.

I want to tell him that it's everything. That everything about him upsets me.

But I think I only want to say that because I'm feeling betrayed.

And I don't even have a right to feel that.

So I don't answer him.

I open the door without another word and step out into the sun.

I walk for a long time.

I follow the sun as it moves across the sky, going west.

 _Toward home_ , I think, then realize I don't really have a home to go back to.

Somehow I find my way out onto the frontage road, walking along the shoulder. Even though the sun is out, it's much too cold for my thin t-shirt and jeans. There's pretty much nothing around at all except for dead wheat fields and a long, empty stretch of road.

 _Shit hole about sums it up._

I'm not even sure why I left the room in the first place. It seemed like the thing to do at the time, but now I'm thinking it wasn't the best decision. I'm alone, and I'm cold, and Spike will probably be mad when I—

 _Nope. Not going there._

I don't want to think about anything from the past 24 hours. I don't want to think about mom, or Spike, or Wolfram and Hart and their vampire cronies, or the stupid council or anything else.

I pause in my walk, looking around. The sun's starting to go down, and as much as I don't feel like spending any more time in that tiny room, staying out here alone at night is definitely of the bad.

With a sigh, I turn around and start heading back the way I came.

And where did I think I was going to go? It's not like I actually planned to "escape" anyway. The honest truth is I feel less and less like a captive the more time I spend around Spike.

That is until he reminds me that I'm just his collateral.

A means to an end.

My eyes start to burn again so I push thoughts of Spike aside and try to tackle everything with logic.

 _Alright, Buff. Whataya know._

I know my mom was a vampire slayer.

I know Wolfram and Hart is offering a substantial reward for me. I still don't really know why.

I know I have confusing mixed emotions over my vampire kidnapper, who I've made out with. Twice.

I know that everywhere we go we leave a trail of corpses.

And I may or may not be part slayer.

So I don't really know much of anything, and what I do know kind of makes me wish I knew even less.

I can see the motel up ahead in the distance, the big neon Vacancy sign flashing as the sun sets and night closes in.

"I've completely lost my mind." I mumble, wrapping my arms around myself, rubbing my arms. "I'm insane-o girl."

Without the sun, it's downright freezing.

I kick at a loose clump of dirt along the road, grimacing when some of it gets up underneath my sandal.

I stop walking and stare at my toes. At the pretty pink nail polish I'd had put on before my last date with Spike.

A memory of my mom comes to mind, unbidden.

She's lying on her stomach in front of me, my feet propped up in front of her on a pillow. She's laughing and tickling my toes, a bottle of nail polish in her hand. Some of it spills when I kick it, and we laugh together as she hurries to clean it up.

But it wasn't pink. It was red.

She always wore red nail polish.

She always smelled like daisies, and the outside. Wind and fresh cut grass.

She used to read to me.

Not bedtime stories. She was never home when I went to bed.

But sometimes I'd wake up in the morning, and she'd have fallen asleep in the rocking chair by my bed, an open book in her lap.

And as if the flood gates have opened, memory after memory begins surfacing now. Things I'd long forgotten, things I'd probably forced myself to block out.

I think about how much I'd hated her for leaving. How I used to imagine she'd have a new family now, maybe a new daughter. A daughter she'd be proud of.

A daughter she'd want to stick around for.

Even then, when I'd thought she'd walked out on us, I think maybe I'd held out hope. Thought that maybe I'd see her again. Find a way to make her proud of me.

I think about how I'd taught myself not to think about her at all.

And I hate her.

I hate her for being the Slayer. I hate her for doing the job.

I hate her for being taken from me.

And I miss her.

God, I miss her _so_ much.

Wolfram and Hart. Spike. His stupid council. What's happening to me.

Everything I've been so worried about, everything that I've been afraid of. It all fades into the background as I stand there staring at my toes on the side of the road in some shit hole Kansas border town, thinking about my mother for the first real time in years.

Missing her now without even the distant, childlike hope of one day seeing her again.

I don't know how much longer I stand there before I hear it.

My name. Over the roar of an engine.

I look up to see Spike's ugly black car speeding toward me. He slams on the breaks, skidding to a halt as he comes up beside me, window rolled down.

He looks furious.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

I try to answer him. To explain that I wasn't running. That he'll still get his stupid gem. That I just needed to think. Some space. Some time.

But when I open my mouth to speak, I dissolve into tears.

No, not just tears. Great, gasping sobs that wrack my entire frame, make it difficult to breathe. The words I was about to say fall past my lips in a choked wail, and my shoulders shake uncontrollably.

Spike hesitates for maybe half a second before he's scrambling out of the car, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me into him.

I'm speaking nonsense, my lips moving against his shoulder. Babbling garbled words that don't mean anything, whole body quaking and shuddering against him.

I'm talking about her.

 _My mom is_ dead _._

Like I've known all along but I'm realizing it for the first time.

 _My_ mom _is dead._

I'm saying it out loud. Repeating the words over and over again, shoulders shaking, throat dry.

Everything hurts.

Cars are passing us on the road, honking as they go, but we ignore them.

I feel Spike's hand in my hair, smoothing it repeatedly over the crown of my head. He's murmuring something to me but I can't hear him over the sobbing.

And the tears just keep coming. Hot and stinging down my cheeks, pooling at the base of my throat. There's so many of them.

At some point I realize that they aren't just for my mom.

By the time the sobs fade out into strangled whimpers, I can barely stand on my own two feet. I make a tiny noise of protest when Spike lifts me into his arms, but it's short lived.

I have no energy left.

I sag against him, sniffling, nuzzling my swollen face into his soft t-shirt.

He settles me into the passenger seat and my heavy eye lids fall closed before he closes the car door. I barely have time to register the hum of the engine or the tires skidding on the road before I fall asleep.

I wake up screaming.

The bed sheets are twisted tightly around my legs, heart pounding, entire body dripping in sweat. It had been the same dream from the night before, but this time I could have sworn I felt his fangs slice into my neck.

"Shh," Spike's voice is at my ear, "it's alright, pet." I tense up when his arm snakes around my waist, pulling me back towards him.

He brushes the damp hair off my forehead in a gesture that's almost tender, but he doesn't move to increase the contact between us.

My back is just barely touching his front.

"Spike?"

I know it's him, but for some reason I feel compelled to ask.

"'S me." The arm around my waist loosens and he begins to pull away. I let him, resisting the urge to reach out and hold him in place.

I feel him shift beside me, like he's rolling onto his back. The mattress squeaks a little with the effort.

We lay like this for a little while, neither one of us moving, not saying anything. I don't move to face him, and he doesn't move any further away. I can feel his presence behind me even without the body heat.

"What were you dreaming about?" He asks finally, so softly I can barely hear him.

"You." I answer honestly.

He chuckles quietly, the mattress creaking a little again.

"Not the kind of screamin' I'd like a dream about me to cause."

I clear my throat, feeling awkward. "More of a nightmare than a dream."

"Figured as much."

"Where are we?" I ask, pushing the dream out of my mind.

"Still in the Kansas shit hole."

I frown and shift my eyes upward, twisting my head back a little toward where I feel him behind me.

"We didn't leave?"

I still can't really see him, but the creaking of the mattress makes me think maybe he's shaking his head.

"Why?" I press him.

He sighs deeply before answering me. "You weren't in any condition to travel, luv."

I don't say anything to that.

Mostly because I know it's true, but also because I just don't know what to say.

"How're you feelin'?" He asks quietly after another long silence passes.

I roll my eyes even though I know he can't see me.

My eyes are sore, the skin around them feels puffy and swollen. I can still feel the sticky salt tracks where my tears fell earlier.

And that's not even considering the mental and emotional wear and tear.

"Peachy with a side of keen." I snap, and curl further onto my side, away from him. Shivering, I tuck my hand beneath my chin. Now that my sweat is starting to dry, I realize how cold it is in the room.

Before I can reach down for the covers, Spike has ahold of them, lifting the bedspread up over my shoulder.

I whip around to face him.

"What are you doing?" I demand as forcefully as I can, voice still hoarse from crying.

He's lying on his back beside me, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling. He shifts his eyes toward me. "What am I—"

"Lying here. Comforting me. Acting half way decent." I raise my eyebrows accusingly. "Are you worried all the crying's gonna damage my value?" I sit up a little so I can see his eyes. "'Sorry Spike, we wanted a _non_ -puffy Buffy. No gem for you'."

He smirks a little but doesn't move. "S'not about the gem, luv."

I bark a hoarse, disbelieving laugh, remembering our conversation earlier. "You could've fooled me."

His eyes narrow. " _You_ could've bloody well let me finish before you scarpered off."

I widen my eyes, blinking at him with false innocence. "To listen to _more_ of your evil plan to sell me for a piece of jewelry?"

He raises his hands to his face, rubbing his temples.

"Bloody hell. You're a stubborn bint, you know that?"

"And you're an idiot."

He turns his eyes away from me, splays one hand on his chest, lifts the other up to cradle his head. "I want the Gem, Buffy. 'S why I took this job in the first place. Traveled all across the country for it." He sighs. "So yeah, put too much bloody effort in to walk away now."

"You're right," I flop over onto my back, "sure sorry I missed that."

He growls softly, a warning rumble in the back of his throat. "Didn't say I was gonna let the wankers have you, did I?"

I twist my head around to look at him, frowning. "Sorta thought it was implied, what with the wanting of the gem and the putting too much 'bloody' effort in and all."

"I don't sound like that."

 _Because my bad imitation of your accent is the most important part of what I just said._

"Look, I don't know what I was thinking. I should have expected this from you." I close my eyes, covering them with my hands. "You've been telling me from day one. Evil. Soulless. You don't care." I shake my head. "I should've listened."

"Buffy," he says my name _that_ way, "luv, I—"

"I didn't leave just because of that, anyway." I cut him off, not wanting to hear it, pressing the heels of my hands into my swollen eyelids. "I just needed to be…away from you. For a while."

Spike considers this for a bit, letting us sink back into a not quite uncomfortable silence.

"How much of it had to do with Nikki?"

I pull my hands away from my eyes but don't look at him. "Nikki?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Spike's fidgeting, picking at the black nail polish on his fingernails.

"Slayer I killed."

I close my eyes again, understanding. "The one who had a kid."

I feel the same hollow twisting in my stomach when I say it as I did earlier when he did.

He doesn't say anything now.

I sigh, opening my eyes to stare up at the ceiling. "Might've been a half and half kinda deal."

He shifts on the mattress, turning onto his side to face me, propping his head up on one hand. "Killed a lot of people's mothers, pet. Slayers and non-slayers alike." He exhales loudly through his nose. "But 'm sorry." He pauses. "Sorry that it bothers you."

I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are down.

I'm unsure how to respond.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I think I know I've been holding Spike to an impossible standard, wanting him to feel things that he can't. Understand things that he can't.

Not really. Not without a soul.

I slowly turn to face him, mirroring his position on the bed, hand propping my head up.

"No you're not."

A small grin tickles his lips, and he tilts his head further into his hand.

"No, I'm not." He concedes, searching my eyes. I watch as his expression grows serious. He casts his eyes down to the bed and takes a deep unneeded breath. "But I want to be."

When he looks up at me again, the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. "I _want_ to be sorry. For your sake, Buffy." He chuckles dryly, shaking his head. "I do."

I stare at him, a little stunned.

 _Just when I think I've got you pegged._

I search his face, his guileless expression, for a moment more before I respond.

"That's hard for you to say, isn't it."

He gives me a sheepish smile. "You've no sodding idea."

I nod, leaning my head further into my hand. I'm not sure I'll ever figure Spike out, but I don't think spending a lot of energy trying to is going to do a lot of good, either.

So I'll take this, this one tiny moment, at face value.

"Thank you." I say softly. "For saying it, at least."

He reaches for me with his free hand, brushing a strand of hair back behind my ear. "Don't mention it." His fingers linger a little longer than necessary at the corner of my jaw. Then his face grows mockingly stern. "Really, don't. I have a reputation and all."

He pulls his hand away and I'm surprised when I feel the loss of his touch. "Right."

"Go back to sleep, luv. You're knackered."

I'm about to comply without thinking, still feeling absolutely exhausted, when a sudden surge of panic runs down my spine.

 _How long have I been asleep?_

"It can't be safe to stay here two nights in a row." I shift, attempting to sit up. "What about the others?"

Spike puts a cool hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down onto the mattress. "It'll be fine for one more day. We'll head out as soon as the sun sets tomorrow." He pulls the covers back over me, tucking them in around my shoulder. "Sleep now."

"You are _such_ a strange vampire." I tell him, settling my head down onto the pillow again.

He chuckles. "So 've been told."

I watch him as he gets up off the bed and moves to the armchair, pulling it out slightly and turning it to face catty corner from my mattress and the motel door.

"You aren't going to sleep?" I ask, not thinking too much into why I'm suddenly so curious.

"Vampire, pet. Or have you forgotten?" He teases me, sitting down in the chair.

I blush, feeling silly.

 _Right. It's night time._

"I'll get some kip after sunrise," he assures me, smirking a little, "only a few more hours now."

I nod, nuzzling deeper into the pillow. "Ok. Night, Spike."

I'm already half asleep by the time I catch his near-whispered words.

"Sweet dreams, Buffy."


	13. Chapter 13

It's the noise that wakes me up. A soft, vibrating rumble just below my ear. I nuzzle deeper into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut, not ready to get up.

The rumbling grows a little louder.

The pillow's vibrating beneath my cheek.

Wait, _that can't be right…_

I open my eyes, blinking the sleep away. I lift my head.

The room's illuminated by the light coming in through a crack in the drapes, but it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I glance around sleepily, then look down.

My pillow? Spike's chest.

And that rumbling noise? It's him.

He's purring.

 _Purring._

It's…kind of adorable.

In a vampires-purr-and-that-gives-me-the-major-wiggins kind of way.

I stare down at him, not remembering when he'd gotten back into bed with me.

Granted, he's lying on top of the covers, while I'm under them…so is he technically _in bed_ with me?

Or is he just on top of the bed that I'm in?

And why am I over-thinking this?

I shift to pull away from him, but he has one arm wrapped firmly around my waist holding me in place.

And it's at this point that I realize that one of my hands is resting against his stomach, underneath his t-shirt.

I yank my hand back so fast you'd think he'd burned me, but not before my fingers brush against the cool, rippled skin of his lower abdomen.

I glance up to Spike's face, checking to see if my hurried movement's woken him up.

Nope.

Exhaling the breath I'd been holding, I lean around him to check the clock on the bedside table. Glowing red numbers tell me it's a little before noon.

I shift back a ways, propping myself up beside Spike on my hands, looking down. His arm is still around me, but I'm careful to keep face to face contact to a minimum, even if it would be through the sheet.

My eyes still feel sore and itchy, and I'm sure my face is all with the red and splotchy. Thinking back to the night before makes me feel both embarrassed and sad. There's no immediate danger of tears, though. I think I cried them all out.

Heaving a sigh, I look back at Spike's face. He looks so boyish, all tousled curls and dark, fluttering lashes. His eyes are moving underneath the lids.

He must be having another dream.

I bring a hand up and run it through my tangled hair. I'm in desperate need of a shower. I'd also kind of like to brush my teeth.

I grimace, looking down at my rumpled appearance.

And a fresh change of clothes wouldn't hurt.

As carefully as I can, not wanting to interrupt his sleep, I begin to inch myself away from Spike and down toward the foot of the bed.

The arm around me tightens.

My eyes fly up to his face, but his are still closed.

"Mmm," he rumbles, making that purring noise again, "Dru."

I freeze, shoulders tensing.

 _Drew?_

 _Who's Drew?_

I don't have long to think about it because a second later his lashes are fluttering open and he's looking up at me with sleepy blue eyes.

"Hey." He murmurs, clearing his throat.

"Hey." I murmur back.

We sit like this for a long awkward minute, me propped up on my hands beside him, his arm still draped around my waist.

"I was just, um…" I gesture toward the bathroom.

"Oh," He says, understanding, "right."

He lets his arm fall away from me, pulling it back around to rest on his stomach.

"Right." I push the sheets down, kicking my feet free and scrambling a little too quickly off the end of the bed.

I have no idea why this is so awkward.

I feel Spike's eyes on me as I bend down to grab my bag, unzipping it to make sure everything I need is in there before carrying the whole thing with me into the bathroom.

I've almost made it to the bathroom door when he calls my name.

 _So close._

I close my eyes, exhale, open my eyes and peak my head around the little partition. "Yeah?"

He's sitting up now, legs swung over the side of the bed. "Uh," he rubs the back of his neck, not looking at me, "probably oughtta be gettin' back on the road as soon as possible."

He looks like he feels as awkward as I do.

I nod, then realize that he isn't looking at me.

"Ok," I murmur, "sure."

I disappear into the bathroom before he can say anything else.

I take my time showering and getting dressed, opting to spend the extra effort to blow my hair dry again. This time when I apply the mascara, I don't feel quite as silly.

It helps to hide the residual puffiness, anyway.

I dig through the bag to find that there's actually more stuff in there than I originally thought. Two more t-shirts, an extra pair of jeans, and I can't help but laugh out loud when I spot the plastic package of cotton underwear.

They're pink with little white hearts on them.

The mental image I get of Spike standing in front of a giant store display of women's Hanes underwear has me laughing out loud again.

Still giggling, I open the package and pull on a pair of the cotton briefs, then put on the same pair of jeans from earlier, deciding to save the others.

I dig through the other t-shirts and pull on a long sleeved hunter green one that's surprisingly soft. Just like the white shirt, it's a little too big.

I wonder absently if Spike ever does laundry, or if he just steals more black t-shirts and jeans as he needs them.

I ask him this when I exit the bathroom.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "I look like someone who does laundry, luv?"

"You don't _look_ like someone who enjoys bad diner coffee." I retort, setting my bag down on the floor beside my bed. "Looks can be deceiving."

My words carry a weight and a double meaning that I didn't intend them to, and an awkward silence descends on us again.

"You finished, then?" He asks after a minute, gesturing toward the bathroom.

I offer him a small, awkward smile. "Yep. I'm finished girl."

And am I blushing?

 _This is_ so _wiggy._

He gives me a nod and moves toward the bathroom door, but stops just before he goes in, turning back to me.

"That shirt looks nice." He tilts his head to the side, sweeping his lashes up from my toes to my face. "It, uh, brings out your eyes."

He disappears behind the bathroom door without another word.

I stand there, blinking.

I look down at the t-shirt, pinching the hem and pulling it away from my body. Releasing the shirt with a sigh, I look back up toward the bathroom.

"So much easier to talk to when I thought he wanted to kill me." I mumble, dropping down onto the bed.

After Spike emerges from the bathroom, platinum curls once again neatly slicked back, we mostly avoid talking for the rest of the afternoon. It's still super awkward between us, but neither of us brings it up, and I wonder if it's because of what happened last night or if it's something else.

It's during the afternoon of avoiding that I discover Spike has a thing for soap operas.

His favorite is Passions.

We watch several episodes together, the silence only broken when I feel the need to ask him a question. To his credit, he only shushes me twice.

 _As if we couldn't get any further into bizzaro world._

Around 3:00 o'clock, the silence is starting to get to me.

I toy with the idea of engaging Spike in conversation.

I want to ask him why he's being weirder than usual.

I want to ask him what exactly he's planning to do with me.

I want to ask him who Drew is.

I want to ask him what last night meant.

But I chicken out and get up and go outside instead. I sit on the small cement stoop outside our door, sorting through my mismatched thoughts and soaking in what sunshine I can.

When the chilly December air gets to be too much for my t-shirt, I knock on the door and Spike lets me back in without a word.

By the time the sun starts to set around 4:30, I'm itching to get out, practically bouncing on my heels.

I watch Spike leisurely stand and stretch, walking over to the flip the TV off.

He eyes me, smirking. "You ready to go, pet?"

I roll my eyes. "I've been _ready_ for hours. God, I don't know how you stand being stuck inside all day."

He slips the duster on and picks up his bag, shrugging. "Get used to it, I s'pose. Normally I'm asleep." He gives me a poignant look. "Sleepin' schedule's a bit off as of late."

I can't help the sardonic smile that curves my lips, grateful that the awkwardness from before seems to be petering out.

"Don't look at me, pal. I didn't force you to kidnap me and drive me across the country."

He looks at me, a serious and unreadable expression on his face. "I know that."

The teasing tone has left his voice.

"Um, w-we should go." I stammer awkwardly, gesturing outside.

He doesn't say anything, just pushes past me and grabs my bag from off the floor. He opens the door and storms through it, leaving me to trail behind him.

He's putting both of the bags into the backseat on the driver's side when I reach the car. I have my hand on the passenger door handle when he stops me by saying my name.

"I'll need to feed, luv. Before we go."

I look at him, brow furrowed.

Why is he telling me this?

He shuts the back door and stares across the top of the car at me, eyes dark in the rising moonlight.

"Do you want to go with me, or stay here?"

Oh.

That's why.

"You're asking me?"

He braces both hands on the top of car, looking down. His voice is low. "Know how you feel about it, is all."

I blink at him, confused.

"You...need to feed." I repeat his words matter of factly, still trying to figure out what it is he's asking me for.

He sighs, jaw ticking. "Look, I don't feature leavin' you here by yourself, but if it's too much for you—"

"Who?" I ask, starting to understand.

He looks a little startled but recovers quickly, his tone matter of fact. "Probably another gas station sod." He shrugs, looking at the car. "Need to fill up anyway."

"Are you going to kill them?" I ask, voice quiet and even.

He shifts from side to side, turning his head away from me to look out over the parking lot.

"Told you I wouldn't, didn't I?"

I nod, looking at his profile.

"I'll go." I say, pulling open the door and getting in.

Spike gets in the driver's seat a second later, starting the engine and eyeing me cautiously. I think he's waiting for me to have a meltdown.

I sigh, leaning my head back onto the leather seat. "I'm still not _okay_ with it," I tell him honestly, twisting my head so I can see his face, "but it'd be a waste of time for you to go and have to come all the way back."

We pull out onto the highway and it's at least ten minutes before we come across a gas station. It's bigger than the one before, more cars out in front and parked at the pumps.

"Might try being a little more discreet than last time." I say snidely, looking out my window at the people milling around.

Spike's hand on my arm makes me jump.

I turn around to face him and feel the breath catch in my throat.

His eyes are stormy as they gaze into mine, his expression unreadable even in the fluorescent glow of the gas station. The lights make his face paler than usual, turns his cheekbones to marble, his eyes more robin's egg than azure.

"Before," he begins, brow furrowing like he's searching for the right words, " when I...I wasn't asking if you were okay with this."

He doesn't have to tell me what "this" is.

Asking me if I'd come with him tonight, _knowing_ he'd be biting someone. It wasn't because he'd needed me to give him the all clear.

"I know." I say, keeping my eyes locked with his.

I realize something looking at him now that I hadn't quite grasped earlier.

He'd conceded a lot to me last night. Just by saying that one word. _Sorry._ Such a little thing to me, but it had been a hard thing for him.

He'd said it, and even if he hadn't meant it, at least not in the way he said he _wanted_ to, it was a lot.

He'd given me a lot.

He isn't ready to give me any more.

And I'm not ready to take it.

More so now than ever, after everything that's happened since yesterday, I don't know what to think about the person sitting across from me.

I have feelings for him. I do.

I just don't know what those feelings are.

One minute, I think he disgusts me.

I think I can't stand him.

And the next he's looking at me the way he is now.

Maybe deciphering my feelings is a job better left for when his eyes aren't burning me into a puddle of Buffy shaped goo.

His hand shifts up slightly, moving to cup my elbow. "I wasn't asking permission."

His voice is barely above a whisper, husky and low.

"I know." I say again, then drop my voice down to match his. "I wasn't giving it."

When our lips meet this time, I'm not surprised.

His grip on my elbow slides up, both hands coming to wrap around my upper arms, anchoring me in place.

This kiss is different.

While there's still the same hunger and urgency now as there was with the last two, it's also slower. Deeper. Almost more intense. Like he's trying to tell me something and he doesn't know another way.

When he inhales sharply and pulls away, gazing down at me with dark eyes, I'm left dizzy and a little breathless. His thumbs rub tiny circles into my arms.

"Okay then."

He squeezes my arms once before jumping out of the car.

It feels like something important has just happened, but I'm too dazed to think about what.

I watch him strut across the parking lot, tossing one last look at me over his shoulder before disappearing into the gas station.

He emerges fifteen minutes later with a bottle of water and something else I can't see.

I peek around him and spot two very white faced employees watching Spike through the swinging glass door. Both look terrified, and both have nasty looking puncture wounds on their necks.

I feel an instant pang of irritation and that same stinging sense of betrayal.

When Spike reaches his hand in the window to drop the water bottle and what turns out to be a granola bar into my lap, I grab his wrist.

"Two of them?" I hiss, incredulous. "You bit _two_ of them?"

He leans his head down so he's eye level with me. When he speaks, his voice is calm and matter of fact.

"Yeah." He says it the way I'd say 'duh'. "Took some from both instead of draining one."

Oh.

I look at him, considering this. I've never thought about the logistics.

 _With good reason_ , I tell myself.

I let go of his arm so he can fill up the gas tank. He's humming under his breath when he gets back in and starts the car.

I open the water bottle and take a few sips. It tastes amazing, and I realize I haven't had any water since the pancakes at the diner. I tip the bottle back to my lips and drain half of it without breaking for air.

Spike chuckles. "Thought you might be thirsty."

I nod. "You thought right."

"Usually do, pet." He pauses, eyeing my thoughtfully. "Would've gotten it sooner, but...you forget, right? Been over a century since I've had to think about anyone needin' water."

I finish off the water and lean back in the seat, training my eyes on the empty bottle in my lap, a question coming to mind that I'd considered once or twice since finding out about Spike's not-so-alive status.

"Is it weird?" I ask him, keeping my eyes down, toying with the plastic bottle's lid. "Being dead, I mean."

I wince.

 _Smooth, Buff._

"Undead." Spike corrects me automatically.

"Undead." I repeat, the word feeling funny on my tongue. I shift my eyes to him just in time to see him shrug.

"Don't feel dead." He says simply. Then quickly, "Or, er, undead."

I can't help but smile.

"You don't act _un_ dead, either." I turn my attention toward peeling the label off the water bottle. "Except for the not needing food and water thing. And the blood drinking thing." I frown, adding, "And you know, for the whole not having a pulse thing. So, I guess you do _sort_ of act undead." I glance at him, smiling sheepishly. "I think I had a point somewhere in there."

Spike chuckles, casting a sly sideways look my way. "No worries, luv. Think I get the idea."

It's silent for a bit until I decide to ask him the question that's been niggling at me since this morning.

"Who's Drew?"

I watch his fingers instantly tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning even whiter. His foot hits the accelerator and our speed increases.

 _Okay, touched a nerve._

"What did you say?"

I can see the muscles in his jaw twitching. He's struggling to keep his voice calm.

 _Just drop it._

I don't.

"Umm, Drew?" I clear my throat. "You...it was a name you said...this morning. In your sleep."

Even in the dark, I can see his features shift, tensing then relaxing again, his shoulder slumping forward a little. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales, long and slow, through pursed lips.

He digs into his pocket and pulls out his cigarettes and the silver lighter, hastily shoving one between his teeth and lighting it.

It's tense between us as he takes a long drag, closing his eyes on the exhale.

I decide during this moment of silence that if he doesn't want to tell me, I'm not going to press him. Now that we've reached this sort of truce, or whatever it is between us, I'm in zero hurry to piss him off.

Just when I'm about to change the subject to something mundane, like the weather, or how he manages to bleach his hair without a reflection, he answers me.

"Drusilla." His voice is quiet, but easy for me to hear in the small space between us. "Dru. Her name is Drusilla."

Oh.

 _Dru._ Not Drew.

There's a coiling knot tightening in my stomach that feels a lot like jealousy.

But that can't be right.

"Who is she?" I ask without thinking.

I have a feeling I already know. If the knot in my stomach wasn't enough, the way he's said her name tells me the rest.

"Drusilla was…" he sighs, lifting the cigarette out of his mouth, "… _is_ …she sired me."

I look over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Sired?"

He chuckles a little, but it doesn't last long.

"Means she made me, luv. Made me a vampire."

I let the gravity of this sink in, watching him return to smoking his cigarette.

"Oh." I say, ripping into the label I've successfully stripped off the bottle in my hands. "So...she's important then?"

He scoffs, but it isn't malicious. "Important? She's the bloody face of my salvation."

The knot in my stomach tightens into a vice, squeezing a lump into my throat.

I swallow and try to force it back down.

"Stayed with each other for over a hundred years." He adds, a little wistfully.

But my ears perk up at his use of the past tense.

"Wow," I manage to keep my voice level, "that's…impressive." I begin folding the label into tiny squares, laughing awkwardly. "And here I thought nobody stayed together these days."

I wait for him to say something, and when he doesn't I find my mouth opening to speak again before I can think better of it.

"What happened?"

He glances at me, again tightening his grip on the steering wheel. From what I can see of his profile, his face looks almost pained.

I jump to apologize for bringing it up, but he's answering me before I can get the words out.

"She left me." His voice is even, but the pain in his eyes when he looks over at me belies the casual tone. "Decided I wasn't demon enough for the likes of her."

I turn to look at him. "Just like that? After a hundred years?" I frown, feeling a little indignant on Spike's behalf. "Seems…" — _fickle, bitchy, stupid?—_ "kind of unfair."

"Wasn't all her fault." He says gently, sighing, shifting in his seat. "Dru…she's different, yeah? Special. She _sees_ things." The way he emphasizes the word lets me know he doesn't mean visually. "She's also mad as a hatter." He adds, a tiny smirk tickling his lips. "One of the things I loved most about her."

I match his smirk with one of my own. "And they say romance is dead."

His face closes off again and he doesn't respond, just finishes his cigarette and tosses it out the open window.

I'm sort of wishing I hadn't asked about Dru now. Besides knowing that Spike had the Guinness World Record of long term relationships with his insane vampire lover, the awkwardness is back.

Except now it's worse, and I don't know what to do with the feels-a-lot-like-jealousy feeling still burning in my belly.

Less out of hunger and more out of a desire for something to do, I reach for the granola bar and open the package.

"'S just to hold you over." He says, gesturing with his head toward the unwrapped bar. "We'll stop for real food once we get through the state line."

I'd been starving yesterday, but sometime between the crying and the exhaustion and the supreme tenseness with Spike I've lost my appetite.

And gained a pretty wicked headache.

I choke down one bite of the granola bar before wrapping it back up and turn my attention out the window. There's nothing to see, and even if there was, it'd be too dark to make much of it out.

I hear the clicking of the old car stereo and the pounding sound of frantic drums and a wailing male voice a second later.

 _Perfect._

"Can we not with the punk music." I keep my forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window but turn my face toward Spike. "Don't you listen to anything else?"

He looks at me and says very seriously, "No."

I groan. "The 80s are over, Spike. The Billy Idol look might work for you, but at least update your music."

He raises one eyebrow at me, incredulous. "Update my music?"

I nod against the window, let my eyes fall closed. "It's come a long way. Sometimes it even has a melody and everything."

His rich, rumbling laugh reaches my ears and an involuntary smile curls me lips. A moment later, I hear another click and the unintelligible wailing is replaced by the twang of a guitar. Country. I can handle country.

"That's nice." I murmur, my headache easing a little.

Then the guitar intro fades out and a deep, male voice starts singing.

 _Baby lock the door and turn the lights down low_

 _Put some music on that's soft and slow_

 _Baby we ain't got no place to go_

 _I hope you understand_

"Yeah. Real clever, that." Spike scoffs.

I shush him. "At least you can understand the lyrics."

 _…'_ _bout this all day long_

 _Never felt a feeling quite this strong_

 _I can't believe how much it turns me on_

My eyes meet Spike's.

 _Just to be your man_

It's not the most explicit song I've ever heard.

Not even close.

But something about the implied intimacy in the lyrics, the rumble of the singer's deep voice, the tenseness emanating from the vampire beside me...

 _We're alone now_

 _You don't know how_

 _Long I've wanted to…_

I reach my hand out and flick the radio dial over until I hear the familiar strains " _My Girl"_ beginning on another station _._

"I'm not really a country fan, either." I say quickly, feeling embarrassed by my reaction. I can feel the blush staining my cheeks.

Spike smirks at me, leaning down to turn the volume up. "Right. The _Temptations_ it is then."

He manages to make the name sound dirty.

I open my mouth for a snappy comeback, but stop when I hear it.

Spike's singing along. Not just humming, but _singing_ the words, so softly under his breath that at first I wonder if I'm imagining it.

I'm not.

I stare at him, straining my ears to hear, mesmerized by watching his lips move.

About half way through the song, I catch myself leaning over and twisting the volume down a little.

Spike stops singing instantly, glancing over at me.

"No, please." I say softly, leaning back against the cool window and closing my eyes. "Keep singing. It's nice."

There's a brief pause, and I can tell he isn't sure.

But then he's singing again, very softly at first, but it soon gets louder. I keep my eyes closed to listen.

He has a nice voice.

It's not quite as deep as it is when he speaks, but sort of silken and raspy at the same time. He finishes " _My Girl"_ , and when I make no effort to open my eyes, he begins singing the next song too.

I don't recognize it, but the words are sweet and simple.

If not a little ironic.

 _Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter_

 _Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here_

 _Here comes the sun..._

 _Here comes the sun_

 _And I say..._

 _It's all right_

I spend the next several hours of the drive content to keep my eyes closed, just listening to Spike sing.

Even though I'm pretty sure he knows every song that comes on this particular radio station, he refuses to sing a couple of them. He skips the Beach Boys on account of their being "bloody poofters", and avoids several others on the grounds that they're just too "wankerish".

"Still a sodding demon, aren't I?" He gripes when I ask him why he isn't singing along to _"_ _I'm A Believer"._

I'm so relaxed throughout the drive that I don't even notice our speed has slowed to a crawl until Spike puts his hand on my knee, shaking me.

"Buffy, luv, open your eyes."

I do, and immediately emit a tiny gasp.

When I'd first closed my eyes there'd been nothing around us on either side but darkness and dead fields. Now, I find myself staring out at a myriad of colored Christmas lights, twinkling and blinking at us through a light dusting of snow. Row after row of lights, artfully strung up along several beautiful Spanish style buildings.

The effect of the display is stunning, and as the car continues to move parallel to the buildings on a side street, I can see that the lights extend about three blocks down.

I tear my gaze away from the spectacle to look at Spike, who's grinning beside me.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"Kansas City." He answers, turning down another road that takes us directly through the center of one of the streets lined with buildings and lights on either side. "Call this the Plaza. String up lights each year round Christmas time." He glances at me, smiling wider. "Like it?"

I laugh, looking back out the window. "It's gorgeous."

And it really is.

Every ornate building is adorned in a different color of light. Some red, some green, others yellow and blue.

And the snow. I haven't seen snow since I was little.

Since before we left New York.

Since before mom.

My eyes burn suddenly, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision.

"'S famous round here." Spike is saying, turning down yet another road with even more lights.

There are tons of people milling around. Families, children, young couples holding hands. Dressed in winter coats and snow boots, cheeks tinged pink from the cold.

The whole thing looks like something off a Christmas card.

"I can see why." I murmur, soaking it all in.

Spike drives down one more street, then pulls into an empty parking space out in front of what looks like a clock tower, dressed in red lights.

He clears his throat. "Know it's not the mountains, but I—"

He cuts himself off abruptly when I turn my eyes to his. In the twinkling glow from the lights all around us, they're back to a deep, almost navy blue. His expression is so open, but also hesitant, more unsure than I've seen him before.

The knot that's taken up residence in my stomach since I first asked him about Drusilla loosens just a little.

I don't think too much about it.

I lean over and press my lips to his.

Spike stiffens under my touch, but relaxes again almost instantly.

The kiss is brief, more a show of appreciation than anything.

When I pull away, I place my hands on either side of his face and whisper earnestly, "Thank you."

He doesn't say anything, just nods, a tiny smile on his lips.

The tender moment is broken by a very loud growl from my stomach.

I give him a sheepish smile. "Guess I'm a little hungry."

I pull my hands away from his face, letting my thumbs graze along his cheekbones before bringing them back to my lap.

"Know just the place."

We pull out of the parking space and start back down the road. I look out the window, soaking in the lights and colors until we turn the corner.

We only have to drive about three minutes before I spot where Spike's taking me. It's another sketchy looking diner with a weird tower looking thing in the logo.

"Winstead's?" I ask, reading the name.

But Spike's already jumping out of the car and heading inside, so I get out and hurry after him.

 _I may have to have him steal me a coat._

I'm surprised to find we're far from the only people in the diner. Almost every table is full, and I'll admit, it smells incredible.

The hostess seats us at one of the only available tables, a little two seater up against a window, hands us our menus and leaves.

"Let me guess," I say, opening the menu and eyeing Spike over the top of it, "'World's Best Coffee'?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Close. World's Best Limeade."

I blink at him. "Are you serious?"

"As a bleeding heart attack." He tilts his head. "If I could have one, that is."

I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling in spite of myself.

I order a simple house salad with crispy chicken which Spike scoffs at before ordering himself a steakburger "so rare it's bleedin'".

 _Ew._

He orders a cup of coffee, and "the lady will have a Limeade."

I gape at him, but manage to butt in and ask the waitress for a water as well.

She scribbles our order down and smiles at us before walking away.

I glare at him.

"What?"

"I can order my own drink."

"Never said you couldn't."

I cross my arms. "What if I didn't _want_ a Limeade?"

"Did you not?" He asks, all false innocence and fluttering lashes.

I purse my lips against the smile threatening my feminist riff.

"Besides," he continues just as our waitress returns with our drinks, "I wanted to try some."

She sets them down in front of us, tossing a handful of straws onto the table and turning her back to me, trying to engage Spike in flirty banter.

He barely pays any attention to her, and she soon leaves, looking dejected.

"Not _hunting_ tonight?" I ask, emphasizing the word he'd used the last time around, unwrapping one of the straws and sticking it in the retro green Coca-Cola glass.

He wraps one hand around the ceramic mug in front of him but doesn't take a sip.

"Already ate." He glances over my shoulder in the direction our waitress just left. "Not my type, anyway."

"No," I agree, "you like your women 'dark and twisted'."

I wrap my lips around the straw and take a sip of the limeade.

It's pretty incredible.

Spike smirks at me. "Remember that, do you?"

"I remember a lot from that night." I tell him, taking another sip. _Yum_. "It wasn't that long ago."

I lean back in my chair and push the glass toward him, grabbing one of the still wrapped straws off the table and passing it over.

He takes it from me, looking down at the green drink.

"No, I guess not." He sets the straw down, deliberately taking the glass and lifting the edge to his lips. "Feels longer."

He sets the limeade back down and pushes it back toward me, pointing at it. "That's bloody delicious."

I laugh. "It really is."

Our waitress returns with our food, and this time she consciously ignores Spike.

We eat in companionable silence for a little while, the fresh greens tasting abnormally good to me, until Spike takes a handful of french fries off his plate and dumps them on top of my salad.

"Hey!" I grab a napkin out of the silver holder on the table and use my fork to brush the offending potatoes off my greens and onto it. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'm feeding you, aren't I?" His expression is serious. "You need to eat."

My first instinct is to snap at him, ask him why he cares.

But the question sticks on my tongue.

Because whether I'm ready to admit it or not, and whether I understand it or not, I realize that he does.

Care.

In what way exactly, I don't know. I'm not even sure in what way he _can_.

But if whatever way he cares for me can somehow keep me from ending up with Wolfram and Hart, it isn't something I can afford to ignore.

So I bite my tongue and give him a playful but poignant look, gesturing to my salad. "Exhibit A."

He rolls his eyes. "Who goes to a famous burger joint and orders a bloody salad?"

"One who's had nothing but processed sugar and alcohol for five days." I challenge, eyebrows raised.

"Got me there." He pauses, cocking his head to one side. "Still, you should eat more. Growing little slayer like you."

The reminder of everything I still don't understand causes the stomach knot to tighten again.

"I'm not the slayer." I remind him, stubbornly laying my fork down on the table.

"No, you're not. They've already got one of those." He reaches for the limeade glass and takes another sip. "You," he sets it back down, voice dropping to a sensuous purr, "are something far more interesting."

I register the fact that he doesn't use the word "valuable" with a little spark of hope.

I push the salad plate away from me, folding my hands in my lap.

"Yeah." I murmur, not really agreeing. "We just don't know what."

Spike leans across the table toward me. "You know, the best people to ask? Probably the pillocks that are tryin' so hard to find you."

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "Good plan." I say, gesticulating wildly with my arms. "I'll just waltz right in and ask the evil lawyers at the evil law firm what I am that's got them jonesing so bad for me."

He leans back in his chair. "Why not? Bet you those blighters know _exactly_ what's happenin' to you."

"Spike," I sound the words out very slowly, "they're an evil law firm. As in _evil_. As in probably _not_ a paragon of honesty and group hugs."

"Hey, I never said anythin' about a group hug."

I groan. "Spike—"

"You have what they want, Buffy." He cuts me off, leaning toward me again, all traces of teasing gone in an instant. "You _are_ what they want. To top it off, they need you _alive_. If you want answers, pet, you can get them." He reaches out and puts one hand on top of mine, squeezing. His voice drops to an urgent whisper, azure eyes searching mine. "You haven't realized this yet, luv, but you hold all the cards here."

I blink at him dumbly, unable to tear my gaze away from the intensity he's leveling at me. I replay his words in my head a few times.

 _"…_ _you hold all the cards here."_

Part of me wonders if we're still just talking about Wolfram and Hart.

For some reason, I don't think we are.

I take a deep breath, eyes glued to his, trying to determine what it is I'm seeing there.

"Spike." It comes out part question and part sigh.

I just want to understand this moment passing between us.

I just want him to tell me what it means.

But he doesn't.

He lets go of my hand abruptly and nods toward my abandoned plate, voice rough when he speaks.

"If you're finished, we should get going. Still have a little ways to go before sunrise."

I dimly notice as we stand up to leave that the waitress hasn't even brought over our bill. Not that it matters.

 _She should just be glad she isn't vamp chow_ , I think dryly, falling in line behind Spike as we wade through the still crowded diner and back towards the front door.

We've just stepped outside when something catches my eyes.

There, on the front page of a national paper, tucked inside a metal newsstand, is the bolded headline: FIVE DEAD IN DENVER, KILLER STILL AT LARGE

I step up to the stand and yank the paper out, unfolding it and scanning the story as quickly as possible.

The words blur together, but I easily find what I knew I was going to see.

 _Neck trauma…massive blood loss…serial killer…throats torn…messages left in the victim's blood…_

My hand shakes as I bring it my mouth. "Oh, God."

Spike comes up beside me, wrenches the paper from my hand and gives it a quick once over. If possible, his face pales even further.

"We have to go." He tosses the paper aside and grabs my hand, tugging me in the direction of the car. "Now."

He doesn't even wait for me to buckle my seat belt before he punches the gas, tearing through the parking lot and out onto the street.

"Buffy."

I don't respond.

I'm staring straight ahead, tears blurring my eyes, thinking about the people in the paper.

"Buffy." He tries again, more forcefully this time.

I remain silent.

Five people. Five more people dead.

 _Because of me._

"Buffy!" He reaches out, turning my face toward his.

I stare at him, wide eyed.

He looks at me, back up to the road, then back to me again.

"Do you trust me?" He asks as we slow down at a red light, his touch light but firm against my cheek.

I blink at him.

"I-I don't know."

It's the truth, and it's all I can manage right now.

He nods, brushing his thumb over my cheekbone once. "Good enough."

He drops his hand, grips the steering wheel, and tears off down the street just as the light turns green.


	14. Chapter 14

We're driving way too fast.

Spike's knuckles are wrapped until they're bone white against the steering wheel, right foot heavy on the gas, left leg bouncing a staccato rhythm.

 _Why is he always fidgeting?_

I sit very still with my back pressed flat into the leather seat, hands gripping the lap belt secured tightly across my waist. I'm staring out the window, not really seeing anything. All I have are the images in my mind's eye, bodies lying broken and beaten, necks ripped apart, blood everywhere.

I picture what the crime scene must have looked like.

Five bodies.

 _There must have been so much blood._

Beside me, Spike curses under his breath and yanks hard on the steering wheel, expertly maneuvering us around a huge semi-truck.

The jolt and subsequent skidding of rubber on road urges me out of my haze.

We're really driving way too fast.

"Slow down." I say suddenly, a little surprised at how clear my voice sounds.

It's the first thing I've said since we got on the highway over an hour ago.

Spike looks over at me. A look that could be relief melts his features briefly before they harden again.

"No." He turns back to the road, presses harder on the gas pedal. "No time. Need to get further north."

I shift my hands from the lap belt to the sides of the seat, nails digging into the leather.

"We're driving too fast." I tell him needlessly.

I'm sure he can see the needle edging 90 on the speedometer better than I can.

"Date on that paper was yesterday's, luv. Means those bodies were probably found the day before." I see him shift his eyes up to the rear view mirror the same way he'd done when we'd left that small town in Colorado.

I frown, still eyeing the needle.

95 now.

"And that means?"

He glances at me, then quickly back to the road.

"Means that Ang—" He stops himself, jaw ticking, and takes a deep breath. "Whoever it is this time that's followin' us, they're catchin' up right quick."

There's something different in his voice now, a strain I haven't heard before.

 _100._

I tear my eyes away from the speedometer and back towards him. "Spike!"

"No." He shakes his head, sending me a stern look. "Tryin' to keep you safe, pet."

I blink up at him.

 _And I'll decode that bit of bizarre later._

My number one priority right now is getting him to at least _touch_ the brake.

"And a lot of good that'll do when you kill me."

I reach over and place my hand on his arm.

I don't know what makes me do it.

I guess it just seems like the thing to do.

Curling my fingers into the soft leather sleeve of his duster, I murmur, "Slow down."

He snarls at me, shaking my hand off. "I said no." His eyes blaze. "Not another bloody word from you."

I'm not sure what I'd been expecting to happen, but it isn't this.

I pull my hand back, staring at him, brow furrowed.

 _What just happened?_

It's been days since he's spoken to me like this. Cold. Callous.

No trace of the warmth I now fully realize I've been getting from him over the past couple days.

I reach toward him again, think better of it, tuck my hands into my lap and take a steadying breath.

"Spike—"

"I asked you if you trusted me." He says, voice tight, carefully controlled.

I'm about to respond when I get cut off, voice catching in my throat on a scream as he jerks the car violently into the left lane and skirts around an ugly looking Volkswagen.

"And I said I didn't know!" I shout, gripping the seat tighter.

A fact I'm feeling more than justified in at the moment.

The car jerks back into the right lane with a loud screech.

"Spike." I say it as sternly as I can, trying not to let the fear I'm feeling creep in.

He's scaring me.

Really scaring me. In a way he hasn't before.

We swerve wildly again, this time edging around on the shoulder of the road to get around a Honda.

"Spike, stop it!"

He shakes his head, a cold smile twisting his mouth.

"Not your pet vamp, luv." He grits through clenched teeth. "Can't tell me what to do."

I shift back in the seat, wide eyed. I feel the familiar burning starting to spread over my cheeks.

"I-I didn't say—" I stammer, but he cuts me off with a snarl.

"Shut your _gob_."

I don't know what a gob is, but being told to shut one doesn't sound nice.

I gape at him, the flush in my cheeks stinging hot with ire.

"What is your _problem_?" I demand, anger pooling in my belly.

"What's _my_ problem?" He scoffs bitterly. "Oh, very nice. Here _I_ am, tryin' to protect you, and you just—"

It's my turn to cut him off. " _You're_ trying to _protect_ me? From what?"

He growls, voice dangerously low. "You bloody well know from what."

I raise my eyebrows at him, folding my arms. "Oh, you mean the mess I'm in because of _you_?" His eyes flash, but I don't back down. "From those 'other' vampires Wolfram and Hart had to hire out because _you_ couldn't finish the job on time?"

He growls again, louder this time, lip curled. "You don't know what you're bloody talking about."

I glare at him, entirely confused and more than a little angry.

"I _know_ that you're going to get us _killed_ if you don't slow this damn car down."

"No," he seethes, "what's going to get you _killed_ , you bloody stupid bint, is if I _do_."

The burning in my stomach intensifies, sending rolling waves of rage up into my chest.

"Why are you acting like this?" I demand, clenching my jaw against the trembling that's beginning in my chin.

Why his attitude should bother me so much, I have no idea. It's not like this level of harshness is new for him.

Or that it's even as bad as it's been before.

My brain flashes back to that second night in his car. The wrenching of my wrist, the burn, the bite.

Maybe it's because I've been seeing a different side to him lately. Maybe it's because, despite my better judgement, I'd started to…what? Expect more of him?

Maybe it's because of those Christmas lights.

Maybe it's because of that kiss at the gas station.

Maybe…

I think back to sitting across from Spike in that Kansas City diner. Barely two hours ago.

To my so called epiphany.

Had I really been naïve enough to think this monster, this killer, could _care_ about me?

 _Grow up, Buffy._

He cracks his neck, lips pursed in a tight line. His cheekbones look razor sharp as he sucks some air in and exhales slowly through his nose.

Is he counting?

"Look," he begins finally, his voice very strained, "I just…I need you to not bloody talk for a bit." He looks over at me, eyes still raging, but there's an almost pleading look in them, too. "I need to concentrate on…where we're goin'." He tosses a quick glance up to the rear view. "I'm goin' to keep drivin'. At this speed. I'm goin' to get us good and well into sodding Illinois. And then I'm goin' to get us to a motel." He inhales again, exhales slowly. "Alright?"

I don't respond. I'm not sure I can.

I'm too angry.

And there's that nasty, irrational betrayal again.

So I fold my arms protectively around my waist and sink down into the seat, turning my entire body away from him.

I ignore the growing knot in my stomach and try not to think too much about what's causing it.

We don't speak for the rest of the car ride.

I expect the tenseness between Spike and I to dissipate, or at the very least dim just a little, but it doesn't.

It seems to get worse.

The longer we sit in silence, the more palpably I can feel the anger swelling to my left, rolling off the vampire in waves.

My ire doesn't fade either, and I have a very bad, twisty feeling in my stomach about what might happen once we make it wherever it is we're going.

When I start to see road signs for Springfield, I assume that's where it is that Spike's headed. My assumptions are confirmed when we take the city's second exit off the highway and find ourselves in the heart of its downtown.

This is the first time I remember actually going into a city to spend the night, and not just camping out at a roadside rat trap.

Not that the motel we're currently parked in front of _isn't_ a rat trap.

 _Maybe it's more of a mouse trap?_

Spike is first to break the silence.

"Come on."

He reaches back behind me and grabs both our bags, shoving the pink one into my arms. He starts to climb out of the car but stops when he sees I haven't moved.

I don't turn to look at him, but I feel his eyes on me just the same.

"Did I bloody _stutter_?" He asks menacingly. "Come. On."

I remain still.

That is until he lets out a loud snarl and reaches for me, wrapping a long fingered hand around my wrist and tugging me roughly across the bench seat and out into the freezing night air.

His grip doesn't hurt, but I find myself recoiling from him just the same.

He keeps a tight hold on my wrist as he slams the car door shut, pulling me along after him and up the set of metal stairs, toward one of the motel rooms on the upper level.

He doesn't wait to pick the lock.

He levels one hard heel kick to the handle, breaking the lock in one swift combat booted movement. The door swings open, and he's yanking me inside before I have a chance to protest.

Once inside, he slams the door closed, grabbing a desk chair and wedging it up under the interior knob. He pulls the chain link tight at the top of the door and I take the opportunity to yank my arm away from him.

I whirl on him, livid, eyes blazing.

"Where the _hell_ do you get off—"

"Haven't gotten off in days, pet." He leers at me, curling that wicked tongue up behind his teeth. "You offerin'?"

I stare at him, disgusted.

Both by the way he's behaving, and with me for falling for the last couple days.

"No." And then, because I need to say it. "Never. I would _never_."

My traitorous body calls me on the lie before I even realize that it is one.

Maybe. Maybe someday.

Maybe I would have, if things had continued like they were.

But not now. Not like this.

 _Not with you acting like this._

As if to illustrate my point, he hooks his thumbs through two belt loops, allowing his fingers to frame the growing bulge in his jeans.

"Funny," he purrs, inching towards me, "not what it felt like the other night." He tilts his head, dark lashes sweeping me up and down, lingering pointedly just below my pelvic bone. "Not what it smelled like, either."

My eyes widen, horrified.

Oh, God! Is that what he'd meant? All those times, talking about _smelling_ me, knowing the effect he had on me?

Oh, ew.

 _Ew._

He's still approaching me, slowly, the same predatory grace I've grown to associate exclusively with him.

"Don't." I say, putting my hand out in front of me in a warning. " _Don't_ come near me."

I swear there's a brief flicker of disappointment in his eyes before they quickly harden again.

"Whatsa matter, luv?" He cocks his head to the side, appraising me up and down. "Nothing to be embarrassed about."

He lunges for me and my hand flies out instinctively, curled fist smashing hard into the side of his jaw.

I watch as he stumbles backward, stumbling hard into the small wooden dresser beside the bed with enough force to send it toppling over.

He makes a weird noise, something between a snarl and a laugh, and when he looks back up at me I'm staring into his demon's golden eyes.

I take a step backwards.

"Oooo," he coos, distorted around his gleaming fangs, "pack a nasty little punch, you do."

He advances on me again and I fall back, legs slightly bent, both hands raised protectively in front of my face.

"Stop." I shake my head. "Just stop it."

My voice wavers.

Just a little. But it's enough.

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Spike's eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.

"Oh." His golden eyes shine in the dim lamp light of the room. He tilts his head to the side, one hand stuck in a belt loop. "Am I _scarin'_ you, Buffy?"

He takes another step toward me, fangs bared. "Are you afraid of me?"

Is he goading me?

"No." I say, steadying my voice, feeling much braver than I feel. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Pity, that." He falls into a deep crouch, legs tensed to spring, arms coiled for attack. "You should be."

And then he's pouncing on me, arms coming around me in a vice like grip.

What happens next happens so quickly, and so by instinct, that I'm not sure what's happened until I'm on the floor, Spike pinned beneath me, my knees digging into his ribs and my fingers encircling his wrists.

There's a bruise swelling on the underside of my chin where he'd landed one solid uppercut.

His lip is split from the powerful backhand I'd dealt him that sent him sprawling to the floor.

We're both panting, gazing at each other with dark, angry eyes.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" I hiss through clenched teeth, sucking in ragged mouthfuls of air.

He could probably buck me off if he wanted to.

He doesn't.

"Oh, calm down, will you?" He shakes one arm free from m grip to wipe the blood from his lip with the pad of his thumb, making a big show of licking it off. "Just testin' you out, is all."

I stare down at him, all narrow eyed and open mouthed. "You _what_?"

He rolls his eyes and sits up, knocking me back and sending me sprawling onto my butt on the carpet.

"You're getting stronger every day, pet." He pushes himself to his feet, brushes the plaster off his duster. "Probably by the hour. But all the strength in the world won't help you a lick if you don't have any skill."

He extends an arm to me, offering me help up.

I smack his hand away and shove myself, a little ungracefully, to my feet.

"So, what?" I demand, dusting the plaster off my jeans as well. "You just thought you'd take me for a test run?"

He shrugs. "Somethin' like that."

 _Oh, that is_ it _._

"Oh, my _God_! Are you insane?" My voice is loud and shrill. "And you do that by _threatening_ me?"

He winces, but comes back over the top at me, voice level matching mine. "Had to get you riled up somehow, didn't I?"

I'm fuming.

"You're a moron."

"You're a bloody liability." He points a hand back in roughly the direction from where we came. "Other people, other _vampires_ , are after us. After _you._ And you don't have the first _fucking_ clue how to defend yourself." He gestures back at himself, both hands on his chest. "I can't be doin' it for you-I have things to do."

"Oh, I'm _sorry_." I yell, sarcasm coating my voice. "Is my being the object of some psycho lawyer's vamp scavenger hunt cutting into your _social_ life?"

He gives me that nasty smirk, eyes narrowed. "Well, you know, this whole thing hasn't been all blood and peaches for me."

I fly at him, smacking him hard across the face.

Not hard enough to topple him over, but hard enough to make a very satisfying sound.

And leave a mark.

"News flash, Spike!" I scream, getting right up in his face. "Nobody _forced_ you into this. No one held a gun to your head…or a-a…" I flounder a little, waving my hands in the direction his heart should be, "stake to your heart…or whatever." I exhale. "Point is, Wolfram and Hart may have come to you, but no one _made you_ take their deal. You _decided_ to." I back him up, poking him in the chest with every _and._ "You decided to track me down, _and_ kidnap me, _and_ take me to New York _and_ trade me in for your precious little gem."

I've backed him up against one wall, catty corner to the bed, beside the bathroom.

" _I_ didn't have a choice." I point back to myself purposefully. "Whatever I am, whatever's happening to me, they're coming for me no matter what. You've made that pretty clear. So whoever it is that's following us, whoever it is that's got you so twitchy—that's _both_ our problems. But don't you dare turn this on me, and tell me that your _stupid_ life is _sooo_ inconvenienced by the decision that _you_ made."

He lets loose a guttural roar, golden eyes flashing.

I blink, stepping back a few paces.

I almost forgot he was still in vamp face.

"You think I _chose_ this?" He growls, pinning me with a hard look. "You think I want to be sittin' in this sodding motel with you, in the bloody middle of Illinois, bein' chased by…" He trails off, shaking his head. "If you think that, you're off your _bird_."

He takes two purposeful steps forward, and I take two back.

Whatever's just happened, it's clear we've hit some kind of breaking point.

"This was supposed to be a fucking simple job." He growls, starting to pace back and forth. He's like a caged lion. "Find you. Bring you back. Hand you over. Get the Gem." He ticks each item off on his fingers as he says it.

And then he whirls to face me, eyes narrowed to slits, fangs bared and glistening. "But then _you_ come along, all sweetness and fucking light, and throw a sodding spanner in the works." He jabs a finger at me. "This whole thing went to bloody buggering shit the moment I—"

He stops, runs a shaking hand through his bleached locks, tousling the slicked back curls.

Then he reaches forward on impulse, grabbing me around the arms before I can react, pulling me close to him.

His eyes are liquid fire, golden flames, burning into me with so much heat and torment and pure, undisguised desire that I think I might physically melt into the floor.

I'm barely breathing.

"I should _hate_ you." He breathes, chest heaving with unneeded air. "Understand? I should want to tear your bloody throat out. Bleed you dry." His fingers curl tighter around me, and I feel fear, real fear, creeping up like bile in the back of my throat. "You're human. You're the sodding daughter of a _slayer_." He shakes me once. "Bloody hell, you might _be_ part slayer. I should be driving you straight to New York, not goin' 50 _fucking_ miles out of the way to keep…."

His voice drops out, shoulders slumping.

And just like that, all the anger drains out of his expression, out of his eyes. The tension leeches out of his muscles, leaving behind his human face in a mask of resignation.

 _And something else?_

"I shouldn't be _worried_ about you. I shouldn't be trying to keep you safe. I shouldn't be—"

The grip on my arms loosens, and he slides his fingers up over my shoulders, over the curve of my neck, up to gently cradle my face.

"I didn't choose _this_ , Buffy." He cups my face a little harder, but only a little, for emphasis. "Don't want to care. Still want the Gem." He looks at me, meeting my green eyes with his blue, stormy with longing and unadulterated agony. "But I want you, too."

There's a sharp stab in my stomach, spreading and fluttering out into hundreds of tiny butterfly wings.

And without knowing why, I'm asking him, "Which do you want more?"

It comes out as a challenge.

I hadn't meant for it to come out at all.

Because I don't care.

 _Do I?_

His expression twists again, indecision etched on the lovely planes of his human face.

It's his turn to say it.

"I don't know."

I expect the heat of betrayal this time.

What I don't expect are the tears.

They form in my eyes before I can stop them, before I can think about what they mean.

I'm able to blink them back, but not before one single tear drop escapes.

It glides down the curve of my cheek, running into Spike's hand, where he catches it on the pad of his thumb and rubs it gently into my skin.

He sighs, looking away from me. "Didn't mean to hurt your feelings, luv."

" _Feelings_?" I scoff, but the effect is ruined by the thickness of my voice. "What feelings? I don't have feelings. No feelings."

"Right." He smiles at me, a little bit sadly, and adds quietly, "Ya know, it's okay if you do."

I gaze up at him with wide, wet eyes, blinking damp eyelashes.

"How do you do that?" I ask, voice breathy and far away.

His brow furrows. He's rubbing both his thumbs back and forth over the tender skin of my cheeks now.

"Do what?"

"Make me hate you one second, and…" I trail off, cheeks flaming.

A smirk ghosts his lips. "Want me the next?"

I drop my gaze. "And… _not_ hate you the next."

"'S a gift."

I shake my head, tentatively meeting his gaze. "It's your eyes."

He tilts his head, eyebrow raised.

"You have hypno eyes." I tell him, staring into said eyes and knowing that that's the truth.

He doesn't have time to hide the pleased grin from me before I catch it.

It's quiet for a moment, both of us standing there, watching one another. The tension from earlier is completely gone.

So is the rage.

But there's still the confusion, both of us unsure of what we _are_ feeling. What we _should_ be. Whether or not the two things mesh.

Whether or not it matters.

When he speaks, his voice is soft and low.

"What color are they?" There's a ghost of a smile on his lips. "My eyes."

I blink at him, the question catching me off guard.

He lowers his hands from my face, guiding them down my arms, until his long fingers encircle my wrists. The tender brushes of his thumb against my pulse points mesmerize me.

"You don't remember?" I ask, voice as soft as his.

I'm surprised by his question, but I'm also genuinely curious.

Vampire. No reflection.

One hundred years without a reflection.

One hundred years of changing looks and styles, and nothing to guide any of it.

I think for a moment about the full length mirror hanging in my bedroom back home, and decide not having a reflection might be kind of nice.

Then I focus back on Spike, and realize he's gone over a century without seeing what he looks like.

 _Would I forget, too?_

"Blue." I say simply, glancing down to our enjoined hands. His are so much larger, so much paler than mine.

They look like a statue's hands.

Spike chuckles. "Blue? That's it?"

I nod, but don't raise my head. "Blue. All kinds of blue. Sky, azure, navy, sapphire," I pause, thinking, "indigo."

I glance back up.

He smirks. "All fancy names for blue, pet."

I nod.

"But yours change. They're different depending on the light," I shrug, "and your mood."

"Fairly mercurial then, I imagine."

I smirk back at him. "Are you admitting to your mood swings?"

"Are you admitting to liking me?"

The smirk falls from my face. "I never said anything about—"

"Do you like me, Buffy?"

Funny how such a simple question can feel like it changes everything.

"Do I like you?" I repeat, dumbfounded.

He nods, shifting just a tiny bit closer toward me. His thumbs continue their gentle movements.

And it's my turn again.

"I don't know."

It seems to be my go to answer lately.

But it also seems to sum up how I feel about Spike fairly nicely.

"You don't know." He shakes his head, searching my eyes, expression earnest. "Come on, now. I told _you_."

I snort, rolling my eyes. "You _told_ me that you should hate me."

"Should." He says, agreeing. "But don't."

He's searching my eyes with his, the same breathless intensity I saw there earlier making it increasingly difficult for me to think straight.

When I answer, I don't know if I'm being honest, or manipulated by previously described hypno eyes.

"I…I have…feelings."

A Cheshire grin begins to spread over his lips. "Feelings, do you?"

I gulp.

Audibly.

"O-of the mixed variety." I say quickly, taking a step backwards. " _Very_ mixed."

He nods.

"Mixed is something." He murmurs, taking a step forward to counter my step back. "Mixed isn't bad."

I back up again.

"Mixed isn't good, either."

He smirks, curls his tongue up. "Guess you can say mine are mixed, too, then."

I pull my hands out of his grasp and place both palms flat on his chest to halt his movement forward.

"Exactly." I say, voice firmer than I expect it to be. "Which means you…w-we can't do… _this_." I emphasize with a flourish of my hand between the two of us.

He pouts, pressing into my hands. "Why not?"

"Because!" I shout, flustered by his increasing nearness. "We both have these weird mixy feelings…." He's backing me up, step by step. "….that we both just admitted to. A-and you're still evil and dead and a vampire." My back comes in contact with the wall. "Who's not sure if you want me or some stupid Gem more. And _that_ in and of itself is reason enou—mmph!"

He silences me, capturing my open lips with his, placing both hands on the wall on either side of my ribs, boxing me in.

My fingers automatically twist into the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

His lips.

God, I'll never get used to his lips.

 _No._

"No!" I shout out loud, dragging my lips away from his. "You can't just _do_ that whenever you feel like it!"

His expression is very serious. "Fine, how bout I just do it whenever _you_ feel like it?"

"That's—"

He covers my mouth again with his, using near-bruising force, body pressed completely against mine. His hands come up to tangle in my hair, pulling slightly.

I let out the tiniest, involuntary moan, and his tongue is in my mouth.

He's groaning against my lips, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, grinding his hips rhythmically against mine…and I'm lost.

To him. To the sensations. To the feelings, however mixy and weird or not, he's stirring in me.

Pathetic. How little it takes.

How quickly Spike can make me melt into him.

I wonder briefly, tugging on his lower lip with my teeth, listening to him growl, if it's a vampire thing.

Or just a Spike thing.

Will I react this viscerally to ever vampire I meet?

Could this be the slayer in me?

I've been so lost in my thoughts, in his lips, that I didn't notice his hand.

Slipping out of my tangled hair, sliding down my back, over my hip, popping the button on my jeans, lowering the zipper.

"Oh, God!"

He's brushing two fingers against me in slow, agonizing circles, nibbling my lips as I gasp and pant against him. His touch is firm enough to cause just the right amount of friction, but the thin layer of cotton separating my tender flesh from his is still too much.

I arch into his hand, whimpering.

He smirks against my lips, whispers "Something you need, pet?"

 _Jerk._

I grip his t-shirt tighter, yank down on it, pulling him harder against me.

I've never let him this close to me before, but it's the only thing my muddled brain seems to want in this moment.

He chuckles, flicking his tongue across my bottom lip, but his fingers never stop their torturous rhythm, and he doesn't make a move toward giving me more.

More of the contact I'm suddenly craving.

Burning for.

My entire body is on fire for him.

"Spike." I breathe into him, caressing his open mouth with my own.

It must have been what he was waiting for.

With a rumbling growl, he brings both hands up to the waistband of my jeans and yanks down, swallowing my cry of surprise as the jeans he'd bought me tear away at the seams.

 _Glad I saved that other pair,_ I think numbly as he drags his nails lightly up my inner thighs, moaning when the tips of his fingers brush against my fabric covered center.

"So bloody hot." He breathes, trailing kisses across my jaw, up to my ear, "Goin' to burn me up, are you?" Agile fingers slip underneath the elastic of the thin cotton underwear. "Set me on fire?"

He brushes his fingertips down past the small patch of wiry curls, dips down even further. He splits the outer folds apart with two long fingers, then begins the new torture of tracing his middle finger lightly up and down my slit.

I cry out, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.

He swirls the tip of his middle finger languidly in the wetness pooled there, and I let out a soft moan, luxuriating in the way his cool skin glides over the sensitive, heated flesh.

"Oh." He groans hotly in my ear, flicks the curve with his tongue. "Bloody… _fuck_."

Then he pushes two fingers inside me and we moan in unison.

It's not like anything I've ever experienced before.

His fingers are long and cold, cooling the flames raging in my center from the inside out.

We find a rhythm, my hips rocking and undulating in time with the luxuriously but maddeningly slow pumping of his hand. He presses into me, the heel of his hand rubbing firm, sensuous circles against my clit with every upstroke.

His fingers curl slightly on every down stroke.

"Buffy," he murmurs, voice thick, "so hot. So wet for me." His free hand loops around me, grabbing the small of my back just above the swell of my butt, gripping me tightly and pulling my pelvis harder against his hand.

I writhe and whimper under his touch, one hand still buried in his t-shirt, twisting the fabric into the knots. The other hand has found its way up, hooking around his neck, nails digging into the soft skin at the nape.

I'm talking, but its nonsense. Babbling little praises and whines and pleas in a voice I don't recognize as my own.

He speeds up our rhythm, using his right hand to pull me harder on to the palm and fingers of his left.

And all the while he's whispering, breathing, groaning into my ear.

 _"_ _Buffy…sweet, gorgeous…so bloody tight…."_

His voice. His touch. The way he manipulates my body, makes me move for him, touching me in ways I've never even imagined.

 _"_ _That's it…that's right…bloody furnace, you are…"_

My head is light, nerve endings aflame, skin too tight.

 _"_ _Tell me…tell me how good it feels…"_

I swear the blood is boiling in veins.

Singing for him.

 _"_ _Come, Buffy….come for me…"_

And I do.

The moment the words leave his lips, whispered hotly, desperately against mine, I come. Shuddering and convulsing, falling apart in his arms, his name a hoarse cry on my lips.

I sag against him, my forehead falling onto his shoulder. He wraps one arm around my waist, holding me up.

He's still pumping his fingers in and out of me in the same smooth, luxurious motion. I can feel my inner walls still spasming, clenching around him, every muscle in my legs completely gone to jell-o.

When the delicious pulsing finally stops, I moan in protest when he pulls his fingers from me, placing his hand on the back of my thigh. He traces lazy patterns on the underside of my buttock with fingers still drenched from my orgasm.

The combination of his fingers, warmed from my heat, the scent of my own arousal in the air and the way he's murmuring my name has me nearly falling apart all over again.

I smile into his shoulder in spite of myself, too relaxed and simply too satiated to feel the appropriate amount of shame.

For now.

But logic is telling me to freak out.

To extricate myself from the embrace of the vampire holding me, get dressed, and punch him square in the face for good measure.

 _All part of the plan,_ lust promises. _Just give me a few minutes._

 _Just until my legs start working._

"Buffy?"

The timbre of Spike's voice is smooth and even, a far cry from the husky, dirty urgings he'd been whispering to me a moment ago.

"Mmmm," I murmur into his shoulder.

He chuckles, low and deep.

The vibration into my lips sends a shock wave rippling down my spine, and my legs go to jell-o all over again.

My eyes are closed. I'm not sure I could open them, even if I wanted to.

"Tired, sweet?"

All I can manage is a lazy nod, my nose rubbing against the black cotton of his shirt.

I catch myself inhaling deeply, the scent that's so uniquely Spike. Aged leather, tobacco, whiskey…and the faintest hint of that sweet, metallic smell that I've come to recognize as blood.

But now it's all mixed with the scent of sex.

It's almost too much.

I practically melt into his chest when he scoops me up, one strong arm beneath my knees and the other still around my waist.

He pulls back the bedspread with one hand, then lays me down underneath, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

Logic starts to return now that he's not pressed against me.

I look up into his bright, expressive eyes, and the way his smile falls just a little lets me he sees it, too.

"We're gonna have to talk about what just happened." I tell him sleepily, eyelids already growing heavy.

His lips quirk up once more in the beginnings of what I've begun to refer to as _his_ smirk.

Distinct. Wicked. Devastating.

"Right, pet." He pats the top of my head condescendingly, then smoothes some of the sweat-damp hair away from my forehead.

"And why it can't ever happen again." The last word comes out slurred on a big yawn.

The last thing I focus on before my eyelids fall shut is that smirk, now in full force.

"Whatever you say."


	15. Chapter 15 pt 1

When I wake up a few hours later I'm not surprised to feel the weight of Spike's body on the mattress beside me.

Despite the fact that there are two queen beds in this room, the same as have been in every other, I'd had a feeling I wouldn't be waking up alone.

And it isn't just because of what happened earlier, either.

The mental image comes unbidden.

His hand wrapped around me, strong fingers pressing tightly into the curve of my back, gripping me, pulling me against him. Grinding my pelvis hard against the heel of his hand.

I flush at the memory, embarrassment and a hot rush of desire making the color rise in my cheeks.

As if on cue, the vampire beside me shifts, and I feel his hand come up and smooth my hair away from my face the same way he had just before I'd fallen asleep.

"Go back to sleep, pet."

I twist around, turning my shoulders so I can see his face.

I can tell he hasn't been sleeping because his hair is still perfectly smoothed back, black t-shirt still tucked into his jeans.

I frown.

"How'd you know I was awake?" I ask softly, my tone matching his. Then add, "No screaming this time."

He rubs his hand over his eyes, looking tired.

"Can hear it." He answers simply, bringing his hand down and laying it on his chest. "The change in your heartbeat, your breathing."

I blink at him, rubbing a little sleep dust from one eye.

"You can hear my heartbeat?"

 _Cause that's only a little freaky._

He chuckles. "Vampire hearing, luv. All the better to hunt you with."

 _And graduating to a lot._

I make a face at him. "You do know how creepy that is, don't you?" I sit up a little in bed, turning my body to face him. I prop my head up on my hand. "The sonar hearing and the blood hound nose." I wrinkle my nose, thinking about his comment earlier. "Especially that last one."

"Don't know why that bit bothers you." He says, turning on his side to mimic my pose. "'S a compliment."

He waggles his eyebrows at me, and my cheeks flame all over again.

I'm thankful for the dim lighting in the room.

Although he can probably tell.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" I change the subject.

He looks down at the space on the bed between us, folding the hand propping his chin up into a fist.

"Dunno. Too much floatin' round up here." He uses his free hand to point to his temple.

"Oh."

He looks back up at me, his expression clouded.

"Did I scare you last night?" He asks me suddenly, quickly, the words leaving his lips in a rush.

I stare at him.

It's not a question I expect him to ask. Unprepared, I answer honestly.

"Yes."

He sighs.

"Didn't mean to." He murmurs, looking back down. Then he reconsiders. "Well, I did, but I wouldn't have…I mean, I wasn't going to…"

"Hurt me?" I ask, voice very quiet.

His body tenses, feeling like a live wire next to mine.

"Yeah."

I think about this for a minute, unmoving.

"Then why?"

He sighs again. "I told you why."

I think about what he'd said the night before, in full demon visage.

That he was "testing me" out. Wanting to see if I could defend myself if I needed to.

That he's worried about me.

I don't think that's the whole story.

Something he'd read in that news article had spooked him.

That's when he'd started acting different.

There'd been something about him in the car…more urgency. More desperation. More…

Could it have been fear?

The thought makes my head spin.

What could a creature like Spike have to be afraid of?

"What was it, Spike?" I ask, hoping my real question comes through in the subtext.

 _What did you read? What scared you so much?_

He doesn't respond immediately.

Instead, he sighs again, and then I see his muscles relax the smallest bit.

When he speaks, his voice is very low.

"The messages in blood."

I wince, closing my eyes.

My thoughts fall once again to the five people in Denver. To their families. I mentally conjure another image of the crime scene.

White walls smeared in red.

"Don't," he murmurs, his hand coming up to rest on my hip, over the blanket, "don't think about it."

For a soulless thing, he's awfully perceptive.

But he doesn't understand.

Thinking about it, caring about it, feeling responsible for it—it isn't a switch I can flip on and off.

But I close my eyes and try to shove the thoughts aside anyway.

I can't afford to think about that right now.

I need to know what it is that he thinks is coming for us.

I need to know how much danger he thinks we're in.

I clear my throat, steeling myself. "What about them?"

Another long pause before he tells me, "They were in Latin."

I frown, opening my eyes. "That's it?"

He whispers a phrase I don't understand, the dead language rolling off his tongue like honey.

At my questioning look, he says in English, "'May God have mercy on your soul'."

He takes a deep breath and shifts his body over, a little closer to mine. His hold tightens on my hip.

"That's what it said?" I ask, searching his eyes.

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

My brow furrows. "A Catholic vampire?"

Spike shakes his head, a small, wry smile on his lips.

"Hardly. 'S a game, luv. Manipulation. Twisting words used to comfort into words designed to terrify." He looks down, azure eyes focused on the lock of honey brown hair falling over the curve of my shoulder. "Posed the bodies, too."

I can't hold back my gasp.

The images are back. Worse this time.

"I-I don't remember reading that." I whisper, swallowing against the lump forming in the back of my throat.

Spike shakes his head, still looking at my shoulder. "Didn't read it. Just know."

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

"How?"

I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"Seen it myself, haven't I? Poofter lives for makin' a spectacle. Not enough for him to kill, to feed. 'S gotta be a big show, dunnit. Loves his theatrics, Angelus does."

The name is like a sucker punch.

It raises my hackles, makes my stomach twist. I know I've never heard it before, but my body reacts to it instantly. There's something about it…like I recognize it, but don't.

"Angelus?"

Spike smirks, but it's not his usual. It's dryer. More grimace than anything. "The one and only."

His eyes are still down.

I wish he'd look at me.

"You know him."

If his visceral reaction to the newspaper yesterday hadn't let me know, the way he's acting now would have.

"Bloody wish I didn't."

There's hatred in his voice. Pure, undiluted malice.

It's obvious there's a back story here, but my concern right now is with understanding what it is that has Spike so worried, not digging into his sordid past.

I run through the new information in my head.

So, Angelus equals big bad. Big and bad and probably psychotic.

But if Wolfram and Hart's behind this, like they seem to be behind just about everything else, then Angelus would be after the Gem…the same as the others.

Which would mean that, even if he did catch up to us, he couldn't kill me.

I voice this aloud to Spike, but he doesn't look relieved.

In fact, it looks like my words have made him more upset.

I frown. "What is it?"

He shakes his head, finally looking back up at me.

"You're right, pet. He can't kill you." His expression darkens, his eyes searching mine meaningfully. "But he can hurt you."

I blink at him, understanding now.

The way he acted yesterday. Rushing us around, driving too fast, traveling north instead of east.

Goading me into a fight.

He's worried about me getting hurt.

 _Big with the ironic._

But I feel a little swell of something in my stomach, little tingles spreading into my chest at the thought.

"Well, yeah, I guess so. But I'd still be alive." I say, trying for a nonchalance I don't feel. "At least until I get to Wolfram and Hart and they take a sample of my blood to build an army of hybrid humanoid slayers and have no more use for me."

Spike pulls his head back a little, raising an eyebrow at me.

"What?" I blink. "Like you haven't come up with any theories of your own."

He closes his eyes, looking frustrated. "This isn't a joke, luv."

Feeling scolded, I look down, saying softly, "I know that."

Spike puts a finger beneath my chin, tilting my head back up. His eyes are open, and they're dark now, swimming with an emotion that looks a lot like pain.

"Angelus won't kill you, but he'll hurt you. He'll _torture_ you, Buffy. And I don't just mean physically."

He searches my eyes intensely, and the look on his face is haunted.

 _"_ _Bloody wish I didn't."_

He's speaking out of experience.

"You might be alive after all's said and done, but you won't be _you_ anymore." My stomach twists, light headed from his intensity. "He'll do things to you that—"

"Stop." I cut him off, breathless. I don't want to hear anymore. I don't want him looking at me like this. "Please, stop."

I close my eyes. It's too much.

Whatever his past holds, whatever dealings he's had with Angelus, I don't think I ever want to know.

I don't ever want to see that look in his eyes again.

His voice is low but urgent.

"You need to know, luv. Can't hide your head in the sand here." He drags the back of his knuckle up over my cheekbone, following the movement with his eyes. "Can't fight me like you did last night, in the car. I tell you to do something, you've gotta do it."

It all makes sense now.

He'd been afraid last night.

 _Afraid for me._

And I see it now. Plain as can be. Written all over his face, etched in the lines around his eyes, the creases in his forehead as he looks at me so seriously.

His eyes are full of it.

"You're really worried about me, aren't you?" I ask, unthinking, voice coming out no more than a whisper.

A little awed.

He shifts back, a cool, casual look replacing the intensity from a moment ago.

"Don't want you hurt, is all." He says simply, still pinning me with those unfathomable eyes.

I feel his fingers brush my waist, his hand settling down again over the curve of my hip. I watch his face, his eyes focused on his hand, and feel his grip tighten through the blanket covering me.

And then he laughs. A real, deep, rumbling laugh.

The sound startles me.

I raise my eyebrows. "What's so funny?"

The laugh dies down to a chuckle, and he shakes his head.

"Wanker." He's talking to himself. "Bloody, buggering, sodding ponce."

I frown at him. "Are those even real words?"

He drags his eyes away from his hand, back to my face.

"My feelings, luv…they're not mixed so much as they are…"

"Funny?"

"'S one word for 'em."

His uses his firm grasp on my hip to pull me closer to him.

I'm still propped up awkwardly on my elbow, our faces close together.

"I know how I feel about you." He says, eyes dropping to my mouth. "Might not like it. S'not natural, right? 'S wrong." His voice drops again. "'S a bloody mess. But—" His hand slides up slowly, a firm, languorous caress from my hip up to my ribcage. "— not sure denyin' it's doin' either of us any favors."

I'm trying to make sense of what he's saying, but his hand is distracting me.

He curls his fingers tighter into me, possessively twisting the fabric of my t-shirt. His thumb moves slowly back and forth, over the sensitive spot at the top of my ribcage.

My eyes flutter closed.

"Buffy." He whispers.

I can feel my body reacting to his touch, the sound of my name rolling off his tongue.

Without thought, instantly.

The same way it happened last night.

 _Last night._

Memories begin flooding my brain all at once. Visceral images. His lips on mine, tongues battling, bodies pressed together up against the wall.

His words to me, the whispered demand, the way my body responded instantly.

I open my eyes in time to see him leaning toward me, gaze riveted on my mouth.

 _Not again._

We can't keep doing this. The hot and cold, the fighting one moment and kissing the 's too much else going on. Too much else at stake to allow for this game we're playing.

Flinching away from him, breaking his hold on me, I roll onto my back and push myself up into a sitting position. Bringing my knees to my chest, I drape the sheet carefully over my legs, making sure everything's covered.

I don't look at him.

"Can you hand me my bag, please?"

He pauses, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he's wondering what's just happened.

I don't blame him.

So am I.

But then he gets up, padding barefoot across the room to my bag, passing it back over to me.

I take it from him, immediately digging through it in search of the flannel pajama pants.

Spike just watches me, standing at the side of the bed.

When I find what I'm looking for, I yank the PJ bottoms out and whip them under the covers, slinking down a little to shimmy them up over my hips.

Spike chuckles.

"Neat trick, that." I look up at him, and he raises an eyebrow at me, smirking wickedly. "S' nothin' I haven't seen before, luv."

I look down at the bedspread, bringing my legs up criss cross beneath the covers, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"I know." I say quietly. Then clear my throat, gesturing to the space beside me. "Sit down, Spike."

I'm more than expecting him to bite back with another scathing comment, so I'm a little stunned when instead he sits, almost instantly.

Affecting a casual pose, slouching back against the headboard, he props one foot on the bed, bending his knee. He leaves the other flat on the floor.

"This the part where you scold me for takin' advantage of you?" He asks, examining the black polished nails on one hand.

My cheeks burn, and I have to look away again.

"Thought as much." He sighs, propping his forearm up over his knee. "Save it, pet. Don't want to hear about how ashamed you are."

His voice is hard, but there's something else, too. Something underneath the cold, clipped edge.

I force myself to look back at him, and it's there, etched in the lines on his face.

Hurt.

I've hurt him.

I let the air out of my lungs slowly through pursed lips, everything I'd been planning on saying scattering and blowing away on the breeze.

"I'm not…ashamed." I begin cautiously, folding my hands in my lap. I look down, training my eyes on my own chipped nail polish. "I'm…confused." I think about it for a second. "Majorly confused."

"Right. Those pesky mixed feelings, eh?"

I look up at him.

His eyes are down, focused somewhere between his knee and his dangling fingers.

"Yeah." I say softly, smiling just a little. "I guess I'm a little Stockholmy."

I'd meant it as a joke, but Spike doesn't see the humor.

His eyes shoot up to mine, flashing angrily.

"That what you think this is, then? Gettin' soft on the vamp cause I'm the only bloke around?"

The callousness in his voice takes me aback.

And it's there again, too. The hurt, burning in his eyes, plain as day.

His face is so exquisitely expressive.

I stammer, trying to recover and explain to him my meaning. "I-I'm just saying—"

"What, pet? That the only reason you get all hot and bothered round me is because I'm the only _body_ available? That whatever bloody feelings you have for me, _mixed_ or otherwise, are because you've learned to sympathize with the blood sucker?"

I blink at him, stunned by how angry he's become so fast.

 _Mercurial is right._

But his words sting.

Both because he says them so cruelly, but also because when he says them out loud I realize that it isn't actually what's happened at all.

I don't sympathize with him. If anything, I've been hard on him, expecting too much from a creature who doesn't feel or understand things the way I do.

At least that's what I'd thought.

Until I'd seen the worry crease his forehead. Worry for me.

Until I'd seen that haunted, pained look on his face.

The hurt flash in his eyes.

 _But those are just shadows,_ I reason.

They have to be. Memories of what those feelings are rather than the real thing.

You can't feel without a soul.

You can't love…

 _Hold it right there._

I shake my head, clearing it.

"Maybe," I say, not moving from my position on the bed. "I don't know. You said it yourself. That this," I gesture wildly between the two of us, "is _wrong_. That it's unnatural."

He snorts.

"Yeah, because it _is_. Doesn't mean it isn't powerful." Then his voice drops to a husky, intense whisper, and he leans closer to me, eyes raging blue flames. "Doesn't mean it isn't _real_."

Anger sparks in my gut. I don't know where it comes from, and I don't stop to think too much about it.

"What's real, Spike?" I shout, throwing my hands up. "The attraction? Alright, fine. That's real. The physical stuff is very…" I blush despite my rising anger, "real."

He opens his mouth to say something.

I cut him off.

"But the rest of it? I'm not so sure. Whatever it is I'm feeling for you…I don't know. I don't understand it."

"But you feel it." He presses, shifting on the bed so that he's twisted toward me, both hands on the mattress, eyeing me.

"Yes." I answer immediately, then, "I mean no. I mean—"

My head is spinning.

"Just admit it, luv." He urges gently, crawling toward me. "I did."

I watch him settle himself down directly in front of me, up on his knees so he can look down into my face. "You'll be the better for it."

He places his hands on either side of my face, the same way he'd done the night before, brushing the pad of his thumb slowly over my bottom lip. "We both will."

For a moment, I'm taken in by him again. His honey sweet voice, the penetrating way he's looking at me, the tender way he's cupping my face.

It would be so easy.

To give in to him. To let him have what he's asking for.

To admit to the feelings I have, no matter how wrong they might be.

To trust the little voice in the back of my mind that's whispering to me now.

The one that tells me I can see a soul in Spike's eyes.

But it's wrong. That voice is wrong.

And I can't trust it.

 _No matter how much I want to._

"Please." I whisper, bringing my hands up over his, gently tugging his hands away from my face. "Just…drop it, Spike."

He sits back on his heels, hands falling loosely between his knees.

His face is guileless. Open, vulnerable. Painfully beautiful.

Looking at him, I don't see Spike. Not as I've come to know him.

I see who he was before, the man who so obviously still controls his heart.

And the demon that owns the rest.

His eyes are a deep, indigo blue, sparkling in the hazy light of the motel room.

When he speaks, his voice is soft. Desperate.

And my heart aches for him.

"I won't." He shakes his head, smiling sadly. "Not how 'm wired." He tilts his head to the side, the sad smile turning sardonic. "Got a real problem with the word 'no'."

I chuckle in spite of myself.

"Never would've guessed." I murmur sarcastically, but there's no venom in it. I glance behind him to the nightstand, checking the time. It's just after seven.

"We should go back to sleep." I say, looking back up at him. I remember what he'd said. "Or, ya know… _to_ sleep."

I drop my gaze down to my lap, thoughts drifting back to what Spike's said about Angelus. "We'll need to get back on the road, right? Guessing it's not smart to stick around any one place for too long."

He pulls my face up toward his, expression serious again.

"Not goin' to let anythin' happen to you, Buffy."

I look at him for a long time before finally responding.

"I know."

Because I do.

A wide smile splits his face, and he drops his hand away from mine, cupping the back of his neck.

"Right then." He says, turning to move toward the edge of the bed. "Get some kip. I'll wake you when it's time to head out."

I reach out, grabbing his hand before he can get up off the mattress. He turns back to look at me, a question in his eyes.

I freeze.

What was I going to say?

"Umm," I stutter, clearing my throat. "I just…the nightmares."

I see understanding spark behind his gaze, and he nods.

I give him a sheepish smile and quickly turn my back to him, laying my head back down on the pillow, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

I stiffen slightly, just for a moment, when I feel him lay down behind me. I wait, not disappointed when his hand comes to rest once again on the curve of my hip bone.

"Is this okay?" He asks, meaningfully squeezing my side, curling his fingers into me through the soft fabric of the bedspread.

In answer, I bring my arm out from beneath the covers and slowly, gently, rest my hand on top of his. My smaller fingers fall in the little gaps between his larger ones.

He leans down, presses his lips against my hair, near the back of my neck.

"Not goin' to let anythin' happen to you." He murmurs again, the same words from before, but exhaled on a sigh, so soft I'm almost not sure he's said them.

I relax into his embrace, allowing myself to feel what I haven't since first discovering everything.

Safe.

With his body behind mine, our hands pressed together, the gentle tickle of his breath in my hair.

Safe in the arms of a vampire. A predator.

And more than likely, my natural born enemy.

Spike had called it wrong.

He'd also called it real.

He'd been right about both.

 _Whether I'm ready to admit it or not._

 _Spike leers at me. "Don't worry. This won't take long."_

 _I bring my arms down to my sides and fall into a relaxed fighting stance, twirling the wooden stake in my hand._

 _"_ _No, I don't imagine it will."_

 _We lunge at each other._

 _He connects with two solid punches to my jaw, but I dodge the third and spin around to land a hard kick to his chest._

 _He stumbles back and I advance, backhanding him hard across the face, sending him flying into the brick wall of the alleyway._

 _I fall into battle stance again as he staggers to his feet, dragging a hand over his split lip. "Ooo, yeah." He pushes himself off the wall and moves toward me. "This 's gonna be fun."_

 _"_ _Not for you." I rush him, aiming a curled fist in an uppercut to his jaw, then immediately rear back to smash my stake wielding hand into his nose._

 _He growls and stumbles again, shaking his head to clear it._

 _"_ _Oi! Lay off the nose, you bloody—"_

 _I come at him, hit him again in the exact same spot._

 _"_ _Bitch!"_

 _He moves to lunge at me but I'm ready, moving out of the way at the last second, spinning around to elbow him in the back of the head._

 _He stumbles forward, catches himself, whirls around to face me. I grab him around the throat with one hand, place the other on his shoulder, and shove him hard into the wall._

 _My finger nails are painted in blood red polish._

 _I have the stake raised, poised to strike, and…_

I wake up to the sound of a very disgruntled Spike.

"Bloody _hell_!"

I blink the sleep out of my eyes, looking around me. I'm sitting up in bed, facing the far wall.

Spike's laying on the ground in a heap between the two beds, a tangle of bed sheets wrapped around his waist and legs.

Bare chested, he's wiping the blood from his nose.

"What'd you do that for?" He asks, staring up at me with narrowed eyes.

I look at him, confused.

"What?"

I'm not fully awake, the echoes of my dream still floating around my head.

 _The sound of my fist connecting with his jaw._

 _The image of sending him flying into the wall._

 _The raw, unfettered instincts._

"Whad'you mean, what? Punched me in the sodding nose." He struggles to his feet, letting the sheets fall to the ground. His jeans sit low on his hips. "Completely unwarranted, mind you."

My head feels funny. The dream is already starting to dissipate, the vivid images starting to fade at the edges.

The only thing that's lingering now is the energy coursing through me.

The raw power I'd felt.

I look down at my hand, flexing my fingers.

"I didn't mean to." I say thoughtfully, uncurling my fist. I look back up at him. "I'm sorry."

I see the ire in his gaze fade immediately.

He steps back toward the bed. "'Nother nightmare, then?"

I nod. Then, without missing a beat, "I want you to train me."

He blinks at me, eyes wide, incredulous. "You want me to _what_?"

"Teach me to fight." I clarify calmly, crawling to the edge of the bed and getting to my feet in front of him.

He gapes at me. "You are completely off your bird."

I roll my eyes.

"Okay, that? Doesn't even mean anything. Besides," I poke him square in the chest. "You were the one who said I don't have a clue how to defend myself."

He looks down at my finger against his skin, then cocks his head to the side, eyeing me cautiously. "I did."

"And that you can't be doing it for me."

He winces a little. "Right."

"So teach me."

I can see the protest forming on his lips before it's even out.

"Buffy—"

"I'm a target." I cut him off, gesturing to myself with my hands. "Fine, I get that. But I won't be a sitting duck." I narrow my gaze on him. "Teach me."

I take an intentional step toward him, body buzzing with adrenaline.

He takes a step backwards.

"You could get hurt if I do, pet."

I aim an uppercut at his chin.

He blocks it easily, batting my arm away with a flick of his wrist.

I come at him again. "I could get even more hurt if you don't."

Growing frustrated, I throw a haphazard punch toward the side of his jaw.

He dodges, sweeping around me so that we've switched sides.

"I dunno, luv."

But there's a mischievous light in his eyes now that wasn't there a minute ago.

I whirl around, attempting the spinning kick from my dream.

The move feels awkward, but I'm able to get good height on it before Spike reaches out and grabs my ankle in mid swing, stopping my foot only inches from connecting with his chest.

"Right then." He twists my ankle, knocking me off balance. "You've convinced me."

He uses my momentum against me, pulling hard on my leg and sending me toppling back onto the mattress.

He grins as I scramble back to my feet, undaunted. "Where do you want to start?"

I take a measured step toward him, resisting the urge to bounce on my heels. I can feel the rush of adrenaline and power in my veins, not just left over from the dream, but surging anew as I advance on him.

He watches me with hungry eyes.

"You've fought other slayers." I say, throwing a right handed jab that he catches in his left hand. "You've beaten them." A left-handed hook he captures with his right.

We stand there a moment, staring each other down, his hands encircling both my wrists.

Our faces so close that our noses are nearly touching.

My chest is heaving, blood humming. There's a small smirk playing on the corners of Spike's mouth that I think is probably mirrored on my own.

"I want you to show me how."


	16. Chapter 15 pt 2

"No."

I blink up at him.

 _What?_

"No? But you just said—"

"I'll do it. Teach you, that is. Just enough so you can hold your own in a fight." He sees me about to interrupt and cuts me off. "But _that's_ it." He shakes his head, looking at me seriously. "Not doin' a blow by blow here."

I yank my hands out of his grip, narrowing my eyes.

"Why not?"

He places his hands on his hips, arching an eyebrow. "Because it upsets you." He cocks his head to the side. "Or have you forgotten our little chat from the other day?"

I look down, chastened, and close my eyes.

"I don't…I didn't mean…" I trail off, folding my arms over my waist. I take a deep breath in and exhale slowly through my nose. "I just wanna know what it was like."

I open my eyes again, and Spike's looking down at me with a thoughtful expression.

"With your mum."

I blink at him, stunned.

Yes.

That's it exactly.

I hadn't even realized it until now.

It's majorly wigsome, how easily he seems to be able to read my mind.

I wonder absently if that's some kind of vampire talent, too.

Or maybe its just Spike.

Kind of seems to always just be Spike.

"Yeah," I say, realizing I haven't yet responded to him. "You said you guys fought?"

He nods, lips forming a thin line. "We did. Couple times."

"And she was good?" I ask, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, looking down at the floor. "At fighting, I mean."

Spike moves closer to me, cupping both my elbows in his hands.

"She was, pet. Bloody gorgeous." He dips his head down to catch my eyes, forcing my gaze up. "You have a touch of her style."

My chest warms a little at the thought, but I frown at him. "Style?"

"Every slayer has a style, pet. Hell, _every_ good fighter has a style."

I tilt my head to the side, a small smile on my lips.

"Do you have one?"

He scoffs. "Damn right.'S bloody brilliant, too."

Images flash through my head.

Some from my dream, a little fuzzy, and others from the night I watched Spike fight Lenny.

He'd been graceful, but brawling.

Like a street fighter.

"And my mom's?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Not quite as brilliant."

I laugh, a small, hollow sound in the space between us.

Spike begins rubbing soothing circles into my elbows with his thumbs.

I let him.

He glances over to the window, frowning. "Should get movin'," he says softly, turning to look back at me. "You were right, can't be stickin' round any one place too long."

I grimace, the thought of spending another night cooped up in the car sounding more intolerable than usual with all the buzzing, pent up energy I have.

Spike chuckles at the look on my face.

"Won't go far," he assures me, pulling his hands away from my arms. "Over to Columbus, maybe. About five hours."

I nod, instinctively rubbing my hands up and down my arms, trying to quell the goose bumps the absence of Spike's touch has created.

I turn away from him, heading back toward my bag and a change of clothes, but stop to toss a glance at him over my shoulder.

"But you'll do it?" I ask, searching his face. "Teach me?"

"I will," he says, then hastily adds, "Within reason."

At my questioning look, he gives me a sly smile. "Don't fancy you bein' able to kick my ass just yet."

But there's something there in his eyes.

A hungry sort of gleam that tells me his last statement isn't quite true.

We're both properly dressed and out the door in record time.

Me, still in my hunter green shirt and the new (non-ripped) pair of jeans, and Spike in his trademark black, except he's added a red button down shirt that he leaves undone beneath his duster.

I kind of want to run my hands over it to see if it's as silky as it looks.

I don't.

We stop quickly at another large 24-hour super store before leaving town. I go inside with Spike this time, hurriedly picking out a few more shirts, a jacket, and a pair of sneakers.

I offer to pay for them, and Spike gives me a look like I'm the biggest idiot to walk the planet.

"Using what, pet? Your feminine wiles?"

I glare at him, explaining that I can still get cash out of the ATM using my PIN number.

"And leave a bloody paper trail as well as our scents behind?"

I watch, amused, as he proceeds to hide all my items in various places beneath the long leather duster.

We make one more quick stop for gas on our way out of the city, Spike returning to the car with two more water bottles and a little bag full of miscellaneous food stuffs.

If he's fed, he doesn't say anything to me about it.

The next few hours pass fairly quickly.

We make surprisingly idle conversation on the way to Ohio. We talk about everything from Spike's many cross-country road trips, to his dislike for modern technology, to where his love of Punk music came from.

Shocker: he has a little thing for anarchy.

Neither of us brings up what happened between us the previous night.

Neither of us mentions the tense conversation we'd had before going to sleep.

And I'm grateful for that.

Really.

About 30 miles out from Columbus, he asks me about my dream.

"Got me punched in the face, luv," he says when I ask him why he wants to know. "Think I have a right to ask."

I smile at him.

He's got me there.

"Yeah, ok." I lean my head back against the seat, tilted toward him. "Shoot."

His eyes slide toward mine. "It the same one every time?"

I think about my answer a moment before responding. "Pretty much."

A sardonic eyebrow raise. "Pretty much?"

I shrug, tucking my legs up onto the bench seat. "Yeah. I mean, the main pieces are always the same…"

"That's something."

"…mostly."

He groans. "You're killin' me, pet."

"Well, you're there every time. And it's always in some gross alley." I turn my eyes up to the frayed upholstered ceiling. "It always starts the same. It's just the ending that's different."

"Okay," Spike says, drawing the word out. "So, what happens?"

"Not a lot," I lie, hoping Spike won't hear it in my voice.

He does.

"You either wake up screamin' or punchin' me in the nose, luv. Try that again."

I sigh, looking down into my lap.

"Last time, we fought."

"In the dream?"

I nod.

He considers this.

"Makes sense then, you wakin' up like that, all hot and ready. Bloody glo—" He cuts himself off on a cough, catching sight of my warning expression. "Right. What about the other times?"

I turn my face away from him, my attention back to my lap.

"You killed me."

He doesn't respond for a long moment.

My words hang in the air between us, almost a physical barrier in the space between his side of the car and mine.

Two days ago, I'd have thought nothing about telling Spike that I'd dreamed of him killing me.

Three days ago, it would have been a completely justifiable concern to have.

It wouldn't have felt like the betrayal it does now.

"How?"

I whip my eyes over to him, catching sight of his profile in the passing street lights.

At some point, we've pulled off the highway and we're currently driving through the middle of what I assume is downtown Columbus, Ohio.

"You bit me," I say, knowing without asking what his murmured 'how' had meant. "The other times, you bit me."

He nods, not looking at me, eyes trained on the road ahead of him.

"And the last time?"

I flash back to the dream, remembering my hand at his throat, stake poised over his heart.

"I beat you."

He looks at me then.

Turns his whole face around, away from the road, and gives me a look I can't read fully, his expression cast in shadow.

I'm surprised when I see the smirk twist his lips.

My stomach does a little flippy thing when he purrs, "Did you, now?"

I frown at him. "Yes." I think about it a second. "Well, I _think_ so. I woke up before I could actually stake you so—"

Spike cuts me off, waving a dismissive hand. "Doesn't matter. Point is, you fought back. In this last dream, you fought back."

He says it confidently, like it means something, and tosses me a sideways grin.

"What's your point?" I ask.

He looks bemused. "My point?"

I sit up in the seat, leaning a little closer to him, intrigued.

"Yeah. Do you know what it means?"

"Oh, no," he laughs, turning back to the road again. "Not a sodding clue."

 _So much for that._

"Oh my God." I lean back in my seat, covering my eyes with my hands.

"Look, you keep havin' this dream, right? Always the same. First few times, I won. I bit you. But last time, I didn't. _You_ won." He reaches out, encircles my wrist with his hand and tugs it away from my face, catching my eyes in a meaningful look. "Just seems significant, is all."

I mock glare at him. "You're no help."

He chuckles, letting go of my wrist.

"I'm about to be a lot of help." He turns us onto a darkened street, pulling up alongside the curb and putting the car in park. "Hop out."

I look out the window.

The street looks mostly abandoned. Old buildings line either side, covered in graffiti, all broken windows and rusty doors.

There's a dark alleyway stretching between two particularly dilapidated buildings, just beyond the parked car. Scattered empty crates and old dumpsters line the way down to what looks like a dead end brick wall.

In the distance, I can hear sirens.

I shiver.

"Is this the part where you tell me they'll never find my body?"

I look over at him, and he's rolling his eyes, already halfway out his door.

I grudgingly follow his lead, popping open the passenger's side door and stepping out onto the curb.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, slipping on my stolen jacket and zipping it up, nestling my chin into the faux fur-lined collar.

 _Oh, cozy._

He raises an eyebrow at me. "What do you think?"

When I respond with an eyebrow raise of my own, he sighs, opening up his stance and crossing his arms over his chest. "Said you wanted to fight, didn't you?"

I turn my eyes away from him, back down to the bricked dead end of the alley, understanding.

 _You've gotta be kidding me._

"Here?" I ask, turning back to him, incredulous.

"Don't feature doin' it somewhere might get us noticed, do you?" He explains, taking a step toward me, grabbing my hand. He begins to pull me into the alleyway. "Besides, we break somethin' here, won't matter."

"Because you're so worried about property damage," I snark, letting him guide me, thinking back to the destroyed desk, dresser and door from the Lenny beating a few nights back.

"No," he agrees, coming to a stop about mid-way down the darkened alley, turning to face me. "But I thought you might be."

He's looking at me that way again.

Expression completely sincere, eyes searching mine, dark in the nearly non-existent moonlight.

I swallow hard.

Then nod.

"Yeah," I say, looking up into his face, smiling a little. "Thanks."

He nods, dropping my hand and taking one long stride backwards.

"Right then. Let's start with somethin' simple."

He spins around, a whirl of black and white, his leg shooting out low. It catches my ankles, sweeping my legs out from under me.

I fall to the ground in an undignified heap, sputtering up at him.

"What the hell!"

"Need to be ready for anythin', pet."

He reaches a hand out toward me, and I take it, letting him pull me back onto my feet.

"Could've warned me or something," I grumble, dusting my butt off.

"You think vampires give slayers warnin', Buffy?" He shakes his head, an amused smile quirking his lips. "You've got another think com—"

He's cut off when he crashes to the ground, duster flying out behind him.

I've mimicked his move from earlier, spinning around quickly, catching his ankles with my leg.

It's by no means as smooth or as graceful as his had been, but it does the trick.

He looks up at me, braced on his elbows, tilts his head to the side. His signature smirk ghosts his mouth. "Quick learner, I see."

He bounds back to his feet before I can offer him a hand, then advances on me, throwing a round of three punches my way.

 _Jab, Jab, Cross._

I dodge the jabs, but the cross cuts me square across the side of my jaw.

I barely feel it.

I don't even stumble back.

I look up at him, both eyebrows raised.

"Alright," he says, putting both hands out in front of him, gesturing back towards himself with his fingers, "Now back at me."

I raise both fists in front of me in a fighting stance, then come toward him.

 _Jab, Jab, Cross._

He bobs and weaves, dodging all three.

Shaking his head, he approaches me. "Can't drop your shoulder like that, pet. See it comin' a mile away." He takes a hold of me, stretching my right arm out all the way, placing his hand on my shoulder and pressing it back so it's square with the left.

"There," he says, "now try agai—"

My left-handed jab connects firmly, and with a satisfying _smack,_ into Spike's jaw.

He stumbles back a little, rubbing the tender spot, eyeing me appreciatively.

The smirk is back.

"Well, well," he drops his hand, "now _that_ was impressive."

I know I'm smirking back at him.

I can't wipe the expression off my face.

The adrenaline is back, stronger now. I can practically feel it flowing in my veins.

My blood's on fire with it.

I throw another punch, an uppercut this time, and feel a surge of something powerful jolt through me when it connects squarely with Spike's chin.

This one sends him to the ground, but only for a split second, before he's back on his feet bouncing on his heels in front of me.

His eyes are dark, glittering in the pale light as he lunges for me.

I block the first strike, but don't even see the second one coming until it's already there, his knuckles scraping against my cheek.

It barely registers, and I'm able to see the third blow in time to shoot my hand out, stopping his fist in my palm.

 _Easily._

I'm able to stop it so easily, and I realize there's no momentum behind it when he lets it drop to his side.

Rage bubbles up in my chest and I see red.

I throw as hard a jab as I can straight into his stomach.

He gasps, doubles over, dropping to a low crouch the ground.

"Bloody hell," he shouts, looking up at me, "what was that for?"

Glaring down at him, I say, "You're not even trying."

He blinks up at me, eyes going wide. " _What?"_

"You're barely touching me, Spike," I accuse, watching him get back onto his feet. "You were rougher with me before you knew I might have slayer in me."

It's his turn to glare at me.

"Yeah, well, that was _before_ , wasn't it?"

 _Before._ The way he says it.

Before what?

Is he talking about what I've said—about the slayer stuff?

Or something else?

He doesn't give me a chance to ask.

"You know what, forget it. You want me to touch you?"

His hand flies out, a curled fist crashing into my jaw.

It hurts, but nearly as much as I expected.

He's still going easy on me.

"There. Happy?"

I look back at him, feeling my blood heat up again.

I don't know what he sees in my eyes, but whatever it is, it makes him take a step closer to me.

A challenge.

"Getting there," I hiss, and I bring my hand up, backhanding him as hard as I can across his too-handsome face.

He stumbles to the side, obviously caught off guard, but straightens again almost instantly.

I can see three, thin red lines marking his angled cheekbone.

"Ooo," he chuckles, "kitten's got claws."

Then he snarls, shifting into full demon face, and flies at me.

He's still holding back. I can feel it whenever I fail to block one his punches. He's moving slower too, much slower than I remember from the one fight I've seen.

Still, it takes all the concentration I have to keep up with him. At first.

I hold my own.

I block what I can, return blows when I see openings. I land more than half of them, gaining more power each time.

We go back and forth for what feels like hours.

Spike pauses to correct my form occasionally in the beginning, or to guide my responses to some of his more vigorous advances.

After a while, though, we fall into a rhythm. We stop speaking all together, just watching one another, anticipating moves and countering on instinct.

 _Dancing._

He'd called it dancing.

When he'd first told me about the slayers, he'd said there was nothing like dancing with a slayer.

I'm beginning to understand what he'd meant.

Spike moves with deadly accuracy, incredible grace and speed and power, even now when he isn't using his full strength.

He fights with his whole body, I realize, as he's suddenly leaping at me, landing one fist to my stomach and the other to my side in quick succession.

I double over, gasping, and he sweeps my legs out from under me the same way he had earlier.

He's on me instantly, letting out a wild roar that sends chills down my spine, fangs flashing near my throat.

I buck my hips up, placing my palms flat against his chest and shoving him hard up and over my head.

I scramble back to my feet in time to see him do the same, as lithe and as deadly as a jungle cat.

He's watching me, head cocked, yellow eyes flashing.

We begin to circle each other slowly.

"Almost had you, luv."

My body is burning, chest heaving with exertion, cheeks flushed with cold and adrenaline.

I grin back. "Almost."

I can feel it now—looking at Spike, watching him, countering his slow movements with my own.

My whole body feels attuned to his.

And my blood is doing that thing again. The same way it had last night. Boiling in my veins, burning me, like it's calling for him.

 _Does he feel this, too?_

We stop suddenly, staring at each other, both our eyes wild and wide and glazed over.

His chest is heaving as much as mine.

 _Gonna go with yes._

I dart my tongue out, licking at the cut he opened earlier with a particularly hard left cross to my bottom lip.

My whole body is aching, but I hardly feel it.

I don't feel anything but this primal urge to lunge for him again.

Can't hear anything but the pounding of my heart, the wild rushing of my blood in my ears.

"Had enough, then?" He asks, grinning at me around his gleaming fangs.

My body says yes.

My blood says no.

"Not quite."

I fly at him, landing a kick to his chest. He catches my leg, like he'd done before in the motel, using my momentum to spin me around so I'm facing away from him.

With lightning speed, he wraps his arms around me and yanks me back into his chest.

His arms are vice-like around me, pinning mine to my sides. His breath tickles my ear, stray pieces of hair fluttering around my face with each exhale.

He lowers his head, brushing his lips over the pulse point at the side of my neck.

"I win," he murmurs against my skin.

His hold loosens on me just a little, but it's enough for me to get my arms free.

I shoot my left hand over, wrap it around his right wrist then shake my right arm free and position my hand around his bicep.

Pulling with my left hand as I push hard with my right, bending my body at the waist for leverage, I yank him over my shoulder.

He sails over me, landing hard on his back a few feet away.

I leap over him, dropping my body onto his. I straddle his waist, knees at his ribs, pinning his wrists down on either side of his head.

"I win." I grin smugly down at him.

He smirks up at me, tongue curling.

"No," he says, golden eyes gleaming, "you really don't."

I frown at him, confused.

I press myself into him and can feel his arousal against me. I try to ignore it, exerting more pressure on his hands and ribs, leaning my face down closer to his.

"I'm not the one pinned to the ground," I say quietly, voice very low.

The smirk fades, his expression growing serious.

"No," he agrees, his tone matching mine. "But in a real fight, you'd be dead."

I watch as his features change, bones shifting, until I'm looking down at his human face.

The scratches I'd left earlier on his cheek are already fading.

I reach my hand out, letting go of his wrist, to ghost my fingertips across the raised red lines.

"I'm sorry," I say softly, looking at the marks instead of his eyes. "I don't…I don't know what happened. It was so weird. Like I…like—"

"Like you wanted to fight. _Really_ fight," he says, raising his free hand up to my lip.

He brushes the pad of his thumb over the open cut, wiping away a small trickle of blood.

"Yeah," I murmur breathlessly, mesmerized as Spike brings the blood-stained thumb to his lips, sucking it into his mouth.

He emits a tiny groan, eyes falling closed, hardening further beneath me.

I feel my inner muscles clench.

It should be wiggy.

It should be all with the big ew.

It isn't.

His eyes flutter open again, golden flecks swirling in the blue.

I pull my hand back, away from his face, and sit up straight.

I don't know why I do it.

I'm not thinking clearly. My blood is still buzzing, pulse racing.

If asked, I might claim temporary insanity.

I bring my hand up, eyes locked with his, and press the tip of my index finger into the cut on my lip.

There isn't much blood, Spike's already wiped most of it away, but when I pull my finger back there's a clear crimson stain there.

I shift my eyes back to his, but he's no longer looking at my face. His gaze is riveted, dark with hunger, on the tip of my finger.

He licks his lips.

Unthinking, I slowly lower my hand, watching his face, his eyes, flicking back and forth between mine and the blood-tinged digit.

Just before I reach his lips he stops me.

Our eyes lock, both glazed with lust, as he wraps his hand around mine, guiding the bloodied finger to his mouth.

He twirls his tongue around it, sucking gently, moaning softly as his lips close.

The moment is so singularly erotic that I'm certain I'll never experience anything like it again as long as I live.

 _Which might not be long._

It's with this thought racing through my mind that I find myself just moments later with my back pressing hard into the side of Spike's car.

And _oh, God_ the way he kisses.

Hands everywhere, clutching him to me, I moan into his mouth.

Cigarettes and blood.

He tastes the same tonight, but _more_.

Better.

Maybe it's just how badly I want him.

He presses the entire length of his body into mine, one hand tangled in his favorite spot at the base of my neck, the other splayed wide at the small of my back.

Our tongues battle in desperate, hungry kisses and all I want is more of him.

He's not close enough.

It's the only thing my lust-addled brain can make sense of.

 _He could never be close enough._

I put both hands on the waistband of his jeans, tugging him to me, angling my hips upwards.

He groans against my lips, shifting forward, grinding his pelvis against mine.

My hands yank the hem of his shirt free, moving around beneath it to feel the smooth skin of his back.

He unzips my jacket, using both hands to roughly shove the fur-lined collar aside.

I gasp when he breaks our kiss, dipping his head, running the pointed tip of his tongue from my now exposed collarbone up to my ear.

"Fuck, Buffy," he gasps, sounding breathless, "Need you, pet. Need you so– Oh, _fuck_ — bloody much."

"Spike," I whisper, voice hoarse with lust, completely lost, "yes."

One hand is back in my hair again, the other at the clasp of my jeans.

"Will you let me, sweet?" He asks, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses from my ear lobe back down to the hollow of my throat. "Boody hell, _please_." He pops the button, starts to slide the zipper down. "Please let me."

My head is spinning.

There's nothing else. Nothing else that matters except for this, the primal urge I feel roaring in my veins, calling me to possess him.

To let him possess me.

My blood is singing.

"Yes."

It's nothing more than a whisper, but the way his grip tightens in my hair, the sharp inhale at my ear.

I know he's heard me.

His lips claim mine again, more urgent now, tongue sweeping and taunting and tasting every corner of my mouth.

Not enough.

 _It's not enough._

The fire raging inside me won't cool.

I tug him against me, hips arched, whimpering, "Please."

He nods, lips never leaving mine, even when he murmurs, "Here?"

My response is to fumble blindly for the car door handle beside me, not willing to break the kiss to look for it.

Finding it, I yank it open, fisting one hand in his t-shirt and pulling him toward the open back door.

We tumble onto the back seat in a tangle of arms and legs.

Spike presses several more hard, needy kisses to my lips before he shifts back, dragging his hands very slowly down from my shoulders to my hips.

He lays a possessive hand over my pelvic bone and turns around, grabbing the door handle and slamming it closed.

When he turns back to me, there's no blue left in his eyes. The pupils are blown, his eyes completely black. Unfocused.

"Come here," I whisper, voice husky.

Spike leans toward me, sliding his hand up as he does. Over my stomach, my rib cage, my breast. Up over my collarbone, until he's cradling my face.

His hazy eyes find mine.

"You're sure?"

 _Good question._

I don't know.

But in this moment, looking up at him, my body crying out for his…I don't think it matters.

So I answer the best I can.

"I want to be."

He looks at me for a moment as though he thinks I'm about to fade away.

Then his lips cover mine, and he's using both hands to yank my jeans down over my hips.

He has to break the kiss one last time to push them down to my ankles, then pulls off both shoes before tugging them off completely.

He doesn't pause to admire his handiwork, his lips finding mine again immediately, body pressing me down into the seat.

I open my legs to cradle him between them, impatiently shoving the leather duster off his shoulders.

He sits up and violently yanks the leather from his arms, followed quickly by the silky red button down. Then he reaches for me, pulling off one sleeve of my jacket and then the other.

 _Oh, yes. Much better._

I wrap my unfettered arms around his neck and pull him back to me, running my hands over his back through the thin black cotton and down onto his bare biceps, reveling in the coiled strength I feel there. His muscles flex and shift beneath my hands, and I dig my nails into his cool skin.

He grinds into me, his hardness delicious and full rubbing against my center.

"Bloody hell," he groans, pulling his lips from mine to press soft kisses across my jaw. "Can feel how hot you are already."

His words and the dizzying friction he's creating have my inner muscles clenching again. On impulse, blind desire, I slip my hand down between our bodies and press my palm to the bulge in his jeans.

It's the first time I've touched him this way.

His whole body shudders above mine.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," he gasps. "Bloody fucking…" He turns his eyes back to mine, and I can see it there, written all over his face.

 _No turning back now._

With a low growl, he pitches his hips forward, grinding his arousal hard into the palm of my hand.

I curl my fingers around him and glide my palm slowly up and down, and he whimpers, throwing his head back.

I watch the look of pleasure pass over his face, biting my lip. Cautiously, I allow my hand do dip lower, pressing two fingers against the sensitive denim-clad flesh further down between his legs.

" _Fuck_!"

His arms give out and he falls against me, pinning my hand between our bodies.

"That's enough of that," he growls against my neck, opening his mouth and biting into the soft skin with blunt human teeth.

I cry out, arching up into him.

"Oh, God." It's my turn to whimper. "Spike, _please_."

He pushes himself back up onto his hands, leaning over me.

"Please what?"

He smirks, back in control, trailing one hand down over my stomach. His gaze follows it as it dips under the elastic of my underwear.

My hand comes up to stop him.

His eyes whip to mine, wild, confused.

 _He thinks I'm saying no._

"I don't want that," I explain, letting go of his hand. I keep my eyes on his and both my hands find his belt buckle.

He still looks confused, but moans a little when I lower the zipper on his jeans.

"I don't _need_ it."

I dip my fingers into his waistband, running them along the smooth skin of his waist until I reach his angled hip bones. "Please," I whisper, gaze still locked with his as I push his jeans down.

I see the understanding light on his face, and if possible, his eyes grow even darker.

He nods, tongue flicking out over his bottom lip.

His gaze travels down over my body, landing pointedly at my underwear just as he hooks his fingers under the elastic and tugs down. I lift my hips, helping him remove the scrap of pink cotton. He tosses it aside, leaving me bare to him.

His nostrils flare and his eyes flutter shut.

Then his hand shoots out, two long fingers pushing inside me, gliding silkily and effortlessly through the wetness there.

"Spike!"

It's as much in ecstasy as it is in frustration.

"Shh, pet," he murmurs hotly, pumping his fingers excruciatingly slow, "trust me."

I drop my head back, writhing below him, arching my hips against his fingers. There's a fire building in the pit of my stomach. Faster and faster, and it's all I can do to keep from crying out.

As good as his touch is, as heightened as my nerves are for him, it isn't enough.

 _Oh, God, it isn't enou—_

He pulls his fingers out, brushing his thumb over my sensitive clit as he does.

I whimper, lifting my head up just in time to catch the sight of him dragging two knuckles down his erect length. In the moonlight, I can see the wetness on his fingers.

I watch him drag his knuckles up and down a few times, then wrap his hand around himself, stroking languidly.

A small sound escapes my lips, something between a gasp and a moan.

The fire inside me rages and all rational thought flees.

Before I can think, before he can say anything, I sit up and grab him firmly around the waist, pulling him down on top of me.

He doesn't hesitate.

One minute I'm empty, aching, every inch of my body crying out for his.

The next I'm screaming out his name as he thrusts inside, all the way to the hilt, stretching me and filling me and completing me in a way I'd never thought possible.

We both freeze, panting, his forehead pressed against mine.

" _Oh_ ," he breathes after a long moment, staring down at me with fathomless eyes. He swallows hard. "Wow."

I don't trust my voice to speak words that make sense, so I just nod.

Arms still around his waist, I cautiously allow my hands to slide upward, palms gliding to his shoulder blades.

I test a tentative circle of my hips.

Spike gasps, dropping to his elbows on either side of me.

For another breathless moment we lay there, connected, and I wonder if it could possibly get better than this moment right now.

And then he pulls his hips back, unsheathing himself almost completely, then pushes slowly back in.

"Oh, _yes._ "

I dig my nails into his back, murmuring and panting nonsense at his ear as he finds a rhythm, setting a rapidly building pace.

Spike alternates between kissing and nibbling my lips, my jaw, and gasping heated, rushed words in my ear.

"So bloody tight, pet," he murmurs against my mouth, "so fucking sweet."

He swirls his hips with practiced fluidity on every inward pulse.

 _"_ _Oh, God," I gasp._

Arches his hips up slightly on every outward pull.

 _"_ _Yes." It's a whisper in time with each thrust. "Yes, yes, yes."_

All the while keeping his forehead pressed intimately to mine.

"Buffy," he's starting to pant, movements growing steadily faster, "move with me, luv."

I nod rapidly against him, unable to speak, and begin to undulate my hips in time with his.

Dragging my hands down, rippling the cotton with my nails, I find the swell of his lower back. Mimicking what he'd done to me before, I use my grip to push him down, driving him deeper into me with each thrust.

"Fuck, _yes_ , sweetheart," he groans, lifting his head up slightly. "Just like that."

I can feel it building now, higher and higher, an inferno growing hotter by the second.

"Spike," I moan his name, banding my arms around him as tight as I can, arching up as he slams down into me. "S-so close. I'm _so_ close."

His pace quickens.

I'm seeing stars.

"Got you, baby," he murmurs, his voice as strained as mine, "I've got you."

And he does.

With one last twist of his hips, I fall apart with a high-pitched wail, body shuddering beneath his. My inner muscles flutter and convulse around him, and moments later he comes with a muffled roar, burying his face in my neck.

We lay like this for a long time.

Neither of us speaking. Still connected.

He presses tender little kisses to my throat, but doesn't move. I have one hand at the nape of his neck, petting the soft curls there.

Suddenly, he sits up, a wild look in his eyes as he glances out the back window.

His face is pale.

I feel my stomach twist.

"Spike?"

He doesn't answer me, just extricates himself from my embrace, yanking his jeans back up.

Panic rising in my chest, I reach out and grab his wrist.

"Spike!"

He looks at me as though he's remembering my presence for the first time. Then his eyes soften, but the hard set of his lips doesn't change.

"Gotta go, pet." He presses a firm kiss to my forehead and jumps over the back seat, landing in front of the steering wheel with a graceful plop. "We've got company."

He starts the ignition and throws the car in gear, peeling out from the curb so fast I fly back, smacking my head into the side of the rear window.

That's when I see it.

A big black van, barreling toward us, high beams shining directly into the rear windshield.

It has New York license plates.


	17. Chapter 16

A million different thoughts crash through my head as I fumble to pull my jeans back on, body shifting wildly from side to side in the back seat as Spike careens around the darkened streets, tires skidding and screeching as we go.

When I peek my head up to glance back at the van, Spike yells at me to stay down.

Unthinking, I follow his command, shifting down in the seat.

My heart is thudding violently in my chest, a tight knot of fear twisting my insides.

 _Who's van is that?_

 _Is it Wolfram and Hart, tired of waiting on Spike?_

 _Is it another hired vamp?_

 _Is it Angelus?_

The knot pulls tighter, bile rising in the back of my throat.

Of all the possibilities, I think it's the last one that scares me the most. The image of Spike's haunted eyes, the way he'd looked at me with such fear for my safety.

What he said about Angelus' torture.

" _...and I don't just mean physically._ "

I squeeze my eyes shut tight.

" _You might be alive...but you won't be you anymore_."

I sit up suddenly, launching myself over the backseat and crashing into the passenger's side in a heap.

"Damnit, Buffy," Spike yells, hands yanking the wheel violently, spinning the car around a tight corner. "I told you to bloody stay _down_!"

I straighten myself, hurriedly pulling the lap belt over me and buckling it.

"Who is that?" I yell back, flattening my palm against the window, bracing myself as we take another forceful turn.

I twist my head around, spotting the black van a little ways behind us.

Spike slams on the gas and we accelerate again.

"Dunno exactly," he says, eyes whipping up the rear view mirror, "but whoever it is, they obviously want somethin'."

I brace my other hand, palm down, on the top of the car.

"And that would be…?" My voice is shaky.

It's not like I don't already know the answer.

"My guess?" The car skids precariously with a loud screech as we charge up the on ramp and out into the busy highway traffic. "You."

I groan. "Of course."

"Hang on."

I barely register the words before Spike's booted foot slams into the gas pedal. I hear it crunch against the floor of the car, and then my back is pressing into the seat cushion. The sheer force of how fast we're moving takes my breath away.

I didn't know cars as old and clunky as Spike's could go this fast.

The sounds of the city, honking cars and swirling wind whiz by us, filling my ears, blurring together.

When I try to look around me, see if I can spot the van, I get unbearably dizzy and have to close my eyes again.

"Almost there, luv." I can barely hear Spike over the noise around us. "Hang on."

I keep my eyes shut as the car hurtles onward, weaving through the four lanes of traffic seamlessly, never slowing down.

I don't know how long it takes before I feel our speed start to slow down. It's probably only thirty minutes at most, but it feels much longer.

I don't open my eyes again until I can hear my heart beating in my ears, replacing the sounds of the world speeding by outside.

The first thing I see is the needle on the speedometer.

90.

So we had to have been going over 100.

"You alright?"

I lazily turn my head toward him, grimacing, hands going to my very nauseous stomach.

"How attached are you to the leather upholstery?" I joke weakly.

He gives me a hard look. "Buffy."

I clear my throat, attempt to sit up a little straighter. "I'm fine."

But I'm not.

Now that we've slowed down, I can feel how badly my hands are shaking. The fear knot in my stomach has only gotten worse. I'm scared. The only thing that I find mildly comforting is the fact that Spike's slowed down, which means we've probably lost the van. And whoever's inside it.

I hope.

He takes one hand off the wheel and reaches toward me, covering one of mine. A horrified look clouds his features.

"You're shaking."

I nod sheepishly, letting the feel of his larger hand in mine provide what comfort it can. "Little scared."

He looks meaningfully down at our hands, and I notice now that I'm gripping his fingers tightly.

"A lot scared," I amend, but don't let go of his hand.

He looks back out at the road. "Told you, luv. Not goin' to let anythin' happen to you."

His words make the knot loosen just a little.

"Did we lose them?"

He nods. "We did."

It's quiet for a moment. We're still driving fast, but it's better than before. I keep his hand gripped tight in mine, pressed to my stomach, unwilling to let go. I'm still shaking.

"You really don't know who it was?" I ask after a little while, dropping my gaze down to my lap.

Was it Angelus?

"Wasn't Angelus in that van, pet."

I look up at him, frowning. "It wigs me when you do that."

But I can feel some of the tension draining from my muscles already.

Spike eyes me, brow furrowed.

"When I do what exactly?"

"Read my mind."

I let go of his hand. He brushes it gently down my leg, squeezing my knee, before placing it back on the steering wheel.

"How do you know?"

He gives me another sideways glance, a small, sly smile curving his mouth. He taps his nose, chuckling when I wrinkle mine.

That will never not be gross.

"Okay, fine. It wasn't Angelus." I turn my head, looking back over my shoulder. There's nothing behind us but empty highway now.

"Oh no, it was."

I whip my head around toward him, eyes wide.

"You just said that—"

"Said it wasn't Angelus in the van, luv." He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't say the van wasn't his."

My hands start to tremble again, and I fist them in the hem of my shirt to try and still the shaking.

"Oh."

Spike looks over at me, frowning, then quickly back to the road.

"Didn't think he'd come straight for you himself, did you?"

I clasp my shaking hands together, fixing my eyes on my lap.

My voice is very small when I ask, "How'd they find us?"

Spike waits a beat before responding. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, glancing over at me, sighing.

"Same way they have been. Tracked the scent." I look up at him, his expression hardening as he looks out at the road. "Didn't do us any favors stopping here, though." He curses under his breath, shaking his head. "Should've gone farther."

For a reason I can't explain, his words, the repentant tone he uses, cuts me. Does he regret stopping in Columbus?

Does he regret what happened there?

My thoughts drift back to how quickly he'd jumped out of my arms before. The rational side of my brain reminds me that he only did that because we were in danger, because he needed to get us out of there.

But the irrational side isn't having it.

I can't help feeling a little hurt, no matter how silly it is. I'd thought it had meant something. I thought he'd felt something.

The act, the moment…it hadn't been purely physical, and I find myself desperately wishing he'd say something, anything, about it.

Not that the fact that we had sex should be our main focus right now.

Not with Wolfram and Hart chasing us from one end and Angelus chasing us from the other.

I should probably get my priorities straight.

Chastened, I unclasp my hands and wrap my arms around my waist with a sigh.

"Where will we go now?"

"Cleveland," he says, tapping the gas pedal slightly. "'S a Hellmouth, so we might be safe there for a stretch. Bound to be someone round who can help us."

I bring my wide eyes up to his face, gaping at him.

There's so much in this sentence that doesn't make sense, that I'm not sure where to start. I settle for the most obvious.

"A Hellmouth?" I repeat, voice squeaking. "Are you insane? What the hell is a Hellmouth, and why would we ever be safe at one?"

"On one, luv," he corrects me steadily, weaving through some slower traffic that's cropped up in front of us. "Mouth of hell. Underneath us, yeah?"

"Mouth of hell?" This has got to be a joke. "A Hellmouth is a literal mouth of hell?"

He nods, not taking his eyes off the road. "Two of 'em in the States."

"Right," I laugh, half hysterically, leaning my head back onto the seat. "And one of them is in Cleveland. Ohio."

Spike shifts his eyes over to me, and they sparkle in the dim light of the car. "Don't look so surprised, pet. You lived on the other for eighteen years."

My head lifts off the seat again.

"Sunnydale is a Hellmouth?"

He doesn't answer, just turns his eyes back to the highway ahead of us, the slightest smirk ghosting his lips.

"You know what, whatever," I say, throwing my arms up and again letting my head drop down. "Not even the most surprising thing I've learned this week."

Spike lets out a small chuckle.

Resigned, I curl my fingers tighter around my sides and sigh. "How's this Hellmouth thingy supposed to be safe, exactly?"

He shifts a little in the seat, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

"Well, 'safe' might be a bit of an overstatement," he begins, cutting me off quickly when he sees me about to interject, "but 've passed through there a few times, know some blokes who might be able to help us with our little Angelus problem." He tilts his head backwards in the direction of the long last black van.

I let my head loll against the seat toward him, raising an eyebrow. "There's that word again." Then I pause, frowning. "Er, words again."

Spike turns to look at me, brows drawn together. "What words are those, luv?"

"Us. Help." I sit up straight, dropping my eyes down to the dashboard in front of me. "Not necessarily in that order."

"Not sure I followed you round that bend, luv."

"It's just…" I trail off, squeezing my eyes closed, sucking in a deep breath. I hold it for a second then let it out slowly, feeling silly and a little kiddish, all the questions I want to ask bouncing around in my head.

What do you mean by 'help'?

What do you mean by 'us'?

Is there an 'us'?

Do I even want there to be?

Now isn't the time to have that particular conversation, but it's the only place my brain keeps repeatedly going back to.

Stupid, lusty brain.

I'm drawn out of my thoughts when I feel a strong hand on my knee, squeezing gently. I let my eyes drift from the glove compartment to my lap, tracing the lines of his long fingers with my gaze.

His hand looks so large, so statuesque, like marble against the dark denim of my jeans.

"It's just…what, pet?"

Unbidden, my hand reaches out, index finger extended toward his. I ghost the tip of my finger over his knuckles, the broken skin left there from our fight already starting to heal. I draw a line from his knuckles down over the back of his hand, outlining the bright blue veins there. They stand out like little streams against the smooth, pale skin.

"Cleveland is a little out of the way, right?" I retrace the same line, knuckles to veins and back up again, eyes steadily trained on our hands. Then I pull my hand back suddenly, as though burned. "If we're needing to get to New York, I mean."

His hand doesn't move from my leg.

"Not really," he says, voice very low. "'S only about seven hours from there."

I flinch away from him, eyes falling closed.

I don't know what I expected.

I don't know why his response bothers me so much.

Or I do, but I really wish I didn't.

Had I really thought that whatever happened between us back there would make a difference? That anything Spike could feel for me would keep him from giving me to Wolfram and Hart? From getting the gem?

He might not want Angelus to get to me, but that probably has as much to do with Spike wanting the gem as it does with everything else he's told me.

I should have known.

My eyes burn, blurring, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision.

"Buffy."

I shake my head, turning away from him to look out my window. "It's fine, Spike."

My voice wavers.

Spike roars.

The sound catches me off guard, but not more than the sudden shock of his hand wrenching away from my leg, the jerk of the steering wheel as he brings the car to a skidding stop onto the shoulder of the highway.

Stopping?

Why are we stopping?

Panicked, I whip my head around, looking back into the rear window as though I'd be able to see the van coming up behind us.

"What are you doing?" I shout, turning back to him, eyes wide. "We can't just sto—"

He cradles my face between his hands and claims my mouth with his, swallowing my words.

The kiss is rough, bordering on violent, lips and teeth clashing even as his tongue caresses mine in cool, lavish strokes.

It's over almost as quickly as it begins.

Before I have a chance to respond, to shove him away or pull him closer, he pulls back from me, gasping. I'm gasping, too. Our pants mingle in the air between us as we gaze at each other, eyes locked. Mine, wide and unblinking. His, unfocused again.

"How many times do I have to bloody tell you," he whispers harshly, urgently, pressing his forehead against mine. "Nothin' 's gonna happen to you. Not while I'm around." He removes one hand from my face, slipping it into my hair, twirling a lock around two of his fingers. "Includes anythin' those wankers at Wolfram and Hart throw at us."

I blink at him, trying to get my eyes to refocus.

Did I just hear him right?

"But, you just said—"

His eyes drift from mine over to his fingers in my hair.

"We're still going to New York, Buffy."

I frown, brows drawing together. If we aren't going for Wolfram and Hart, if we aren't going for Spike's gem, then why are we going?

I ask him, my voice sounding very small, and he shifts back to pull his forehead from mine.

A small, knowing smile quirks his mouth.

"Gonna get your questions answered, luv. About you. Bout your mum." The hand in my hair tugs gently, and his eyes find mine again. "Gonna find a way to get the gem, too, if I can."

My eyes are riveted on his, searching, mesmerized by the midnight blue there.

He sweeps his thumb over my cheek bone, then shifts his hand back, weaving his fingers into the hair over my ear and cupping the base of my skull lightly. "But I won't give you to them. Won't let 'em touch you." He leans in closer to me, his lips almost touching mine as he murmurs, "Won't stand for that."

There's no urgency this time. No violence. Just his lips, soft and full against mine. Tongues slowly, heatedly, entangling. I sigh into his mouth, hands twisting in his t-shirt, all the panic and the fear and dejection from earlier melting away with each sweeping, open mouthed kiss.

The surge of relief I feel fluttering through my chest is overshadowed only by the sudden thrill of fear as a car whizzes past us, honking, making me jump and Spike curse loudly.

"Right," he says, pulling away from me, "we better go."

"Right," I agree breathlessly, eyes falling to his mouth.

"Right."

He presses one last, lingering kiss to my lips before quickly pulling away and turning back to the road. And then we're pulling back onto the road, barreling at a break neck pace down the highway.

We make it to Cleveland in record time, but only just before the sky begins to lighten. I try to ignore the panic edging at the corner of my mind as we drive through the city, again going deep into downtown instead of staying on the outskirts. When the first rays of light creep over the horizon, my chest tightens, eyes flitting back and forth between the eastern sky and Spike's face.

He looks unconcerned.

"Spike." I put my hand on his arm. "We need to get inside."

He tosses me a mock surprised look, smirking wickedly. "Worried about me, are you?"

Despite my concern, the words bring a smile to my face, a mimicry of a conversation that seems light years away now.

Still, the fact remains that I am worried.

About Spike.

So I answer honestly, "Yes."

His look of mock surprise melts into a genuine one. There's something in his eyes when his gaze meets mine, the blue turning cerulean with the new gleam, a twinkling I've never seen before.

It looks a little like hope.

"Well now," he says, his voice low and thick as he searches my eyes, "how bout that."

"Yeah." I clear my throat and have to look away from him. "So, let's go."

Spike doesn't answer me. He flips his stereo on, relaxing down into his seat, and starts singing along to an old song that I don't recognize.

I look back to see the little smile on his face.

Such a strange vampire.

He maneuvers us around downtown Cleveland with practiced ease, and it's only a few minutes before we're pulling beneath a modern-looking overhang with a big red Marriott sign on the top.

I frown.

This can't be right.

But Spike puts the car in park, saying lightly, "Here we are."

I sit there dumbly, looking back and forth between Spike and the big glass doors of the hotel on my right.

"Do us a favor and grab the bags, pet?" He asks, hopping out of the driver's side. "Should get inside and check in."

I blink at him, following him with my eyes as he shuts the door and saunters quickly but casually into the hotel.

Check in?

Dazed, entirely confused, I reach around behind me and tug both of our bags off the floor beneath the back seat. Spotting my jacket, I grab that, too. I pull it on, zipping it up, then I haul both bags onto my shoulders and hop out.

The hotel lobby is gorgeous. Even if I hadn't been used to the sleazy flea bag motels we've been staying at, I'd still feel overwhelmed by how lovely it is. A cross between contemporary and old world sophistication, I'm so enamored with it, looking all around, that I hardly notice Spike until I hear his rumbling laughter echo up around the marble columns.

My eyes turn toward the sound.

He's leaning over the check in counter, grinning widely at the slight, older woman at the computer. They're bantering back and forth easily, the woman blushing, swatting playfully at Spike's arm.

I frown and head across the lobby toward them.

"…usual room'll do me fine, pet," he's saying as I approach him, tossing a wink to the older woman. "Thanks."

He turns toward me, and I raise an eyebrow at him. Usual room?

"Passed through a few times, huh?" I snark quietly, speaking out of the corner of my mouth.

Spike grins.

"Oh, William," the older woman coos loudly, "who's your new friend?"

We both turn back to her, my eyebrows raised high, Spike's signature smirk firmly in place.

"Buffy," I say, coaching my expression into a tight smile. The thought crosses my mind unbidden, sneaking up on me, and it's out of my mouth before I can reign it in. "And how many 'friends' has William brought here exactly?"

Beside me, my vampire stiffens.

The older woman, her nametag says 'Carol', opens her mouth to speak but Spike cuts her off with a quick thank you, reaching down to grab the room key from her before she can answer my question.

He places his hand in a deceptively light hold on my arm, ushering me out of the lobby and over toward the bank of elevators. Once we round the corner, I yank free from his grip, whirling to face him.

"Friends, huh?"

Spike rolls his eyes, pressing the up button on wall beside my head. "Buffy, look—"

"No, no, I get it," I say, throwing my hands up, letting them land on my hips. "I mean, a hundred years, I'm sure a vamp gets lonely."

The elevator dings and the doors open, and I whirl around to march inside as huffily as I can manage. He stalks in behind me, jabs the 'door closed' button and shoves both our bags off my shoulders, letting them drop to the ground with two dull thuds. With a low growl, he puts his hands on my shoulders and presses my back into the wall.

"One 'friend'," he whispers, eyes searching mine seriously. "Only other bird I ever had with me here was Dru."

Dru. Drusilla.

I honestly don't know if I feel better now, or worse.

His grip on my shoulders loosens as he looks at my face, his eyes softening. His thumbs rub little circles into my arms and his voice drops to a low whisper.

"The only one I want with me now is you."

His face is so sincere, so intense, and I find myself nodding without even realizing it. I don't want to argue. Not with him, and not now.

Suddenly, I just really want to sleep.

When the doors ding and re-open, Spike releases me and picks both of our bags up off the ground, hauling them over his shoulder. He gestures for me to go ahead of him. We arrive at the door, and he hands me the room key.

Eyeing him a little warily, I slip the key in the lock, wait for the little green light the click, and push the door open.

My jaw drops.

I step inside, taking in the room around me. The narrow entryway opens up into a small sitting area consisting of two big chairs and a comfy looking sofa. On the other side, a small room is sectioned off with what looks like a dining area and a small kitchenette. The countertops are marble.

"How'd you pay for this?" I ask, awed, knowing even as I ask that it's probably a dumb question. The door clicks closed behind us, and I hear the soft plop of our bags hitting the plush carpet.

I take a few steps further into the room.

"Told you," his voice drifts from behind me, honeyed, "know some blokes that can help us."

I toss him a cursory glance over my shoulder. "A vampire owns this hotel?"

"Not exactly," he says, smirking. "Hellmouth and all. Demon friendly town."

This is probably about as detailed an answer as I'm going to get so I just nod, turning back to gazing at the room.

I step through the French doors to the left of the sitting area and find myself standing in the bedroom. A large, white linen covered bed with piles of fluffy looking pillows sits in the center. Directly to my left, there's a big marble countered vanity and beyond that, a bathroom.

I feel Spike's presence behind me, but don't turn around to face him.

"One bed." I observe softly.

His hands come to rest on my hips. "I can take the couch." His breath fans over the curve of my ear, making me shiver. "If you want."

I swallow hard.

"That's okay," I say, my voice coming out breathless, quiet. "We've been sleeping in the same bed the last couple nights, anyway."

His hands curl tighter into my hips, and he steps forward, closing the gap between us. I feel my shoulders tense automatically, inhaling sharply as his hips press into me from behind.

He misunderstands my reaction.

"You're safe here, luv," he murmurs reassuringly, releasing my hips and gliding his palms up my arms. "Relax. Get some sleep." He rubs his hands up and down my arms as if he's warming them. "We'll leave round sunset, get more help."

I turn in Spike's arms, looking up into his face. The marks I'd left across his cheekbone earlier are completely gone.

"I know I'm safe here," I say, letting my hands come up to rest on the tops of his forearms. "I'm not worried." I frown, dropping my gaze to his chest. "Well, I am. But that isn't…I just…"

I trail off, sighing. I've never been words girl.

"Just what, pet?" He asks, settling his hands on my waist.

Okay, just do it. Just ask.

Like ripping off a band-aid.

"Are we gonna talk about it?" I blurt, still not looking at him. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks but press on anyway. "What…happened…back there."

Spike freezes, fingers tightening ever so slightly around my waist.

He doesn't ask me what I mean. In fact, he doesn't say anything for a long minute. I'm glad my eyes are down. I can feel him looking at me, though, and the flaming in my cheeks refuses to fade.

Finally, he removes one hand from my waist and guides it to my face, turning my eyes toward his.

"What happened back there," he says earnestly, slipping his hand around so that he's cupping my chin between his thumb and index finger, "was a bloody revelation."

I lean forward and gently, lightly, touch my lips to his.

This kiss isn't forceful, isn't urgent like so many of the others we've shared. Like the time before, sitting in the parked car in front of twinkling Christmas lights the first time I kissed him.

Its more a show of gratitude than lust.

But its the first time that I've kissed him since everything happened in that abandoned Columbus alleyway, and for some reason, everything about it feels different.

The kiss is soft, quick. I pull back away from him with a small, relieved smile. He shrugs his duster off, letting it drop to the ground at his feet, then steps forward to unzip my jacket.

I feel the breath catch in my throat, and Spike's eyes shoot to mine, expression confused.

Whatever he sees on my face answers his unspoken question, and he chuckles, proceeding to divest me of my jacket.

"Not tryin' to seduce you, pet," he says, dropping my jacket down onto the floor beside his. "Just helpin' you get ready for bed."

My cheeks flame a little, and I duck my head, embarrassed.

Is that really where my mind had been at? What, did I think _everything_ revolved around that now, just because it happened once?

 _Get a grip._

Probably sensing my embarrassment, Spike reaches out and takes both my hands in his, clasping them together. "Practically dead on your feet, luv. You need to sleep." He lets my hands fall down to my sides and feathers one of his over my hair. "We're safe here, yeah? But we have to be careful. Sleep will help you heal. Besides," He smirks at me, eyes glinting, "can't have you so out of sorts you can't spar again, can we?"

As if on cue, all the tired bones in my body seem to throb and ache all at once. I feel the bruise shadowing my jaw, the cut on my lips, the tweaking of my ribs as I breathe deeply in and out.

"Ow," I mumble, making a face.

"Adrenaline," Spike chuckles, putting his hands on my arms and inching me back toward the bed. "'S a helluva thing, innit."

"Sparring hurts." The back of my legs press into the side of the fluffy mattress.

"That it does."

I let Spike unbutton my jeans and shimmy them down my hips, exhaustion slowly suffusing my body now that I've realized how worn down I am.

I help him when he gets them to my ankles, stepping out of one leg then the other, bracing my hands on his bare back for balance.

He tosses them aside and leaves one sensuous, wet kiss on the inside of my right thigh before putting his hands on my waist and pushing me onto the bed.

I glare at him as he stands back up, but the anger is short lived as I sink further down into the mattress. I close my eyes, exhaling a sigh, every sore muscle in my body crying out in relief.

I feel the bed dip down slightly as Spike crawls in beside me, but I don't open my eyes, the lids suddenly too heavy to even consider moving. A strong arm wraps around my waist, tugging me over and up until my head's comfortably cushioned between one of the pillows and the cool skin of Spike's bicep.

I nuzzle into him, inhaling his scent, enjoying the way his body molds against mine.

And I drift into the first dreamless sleep I've had in days.


	18. Chapter 17

I wake up well before Spike does.

I'm surprised to find that it's barely past noon, having thought with how exhausted my body had felt that I would have crashed a lot harder.

Still, I'm grateful for the time to myself. For the quiet. For the feeling of safety this particular hotel room provides, no matter how much an illusion it might be.

That van's still out there. It's still coming.

If it was able to find us in the middle of a desolate Columbus alleyway, how much easier will they find us here?

 _Okay, let's not with the doom and gloom just yet._

Spike's told me we're safe here. He's told me he has a plan, knows people in this city that might be able to help us.

How, I have no idea.

But I don't think the how is as important as the when.

We won't be able to stay here long after the sun goes down. Even if we'd lost the black van on the highway, they couldn't have been all that far behind us, and it only took us a couple hours to get here.

I keep my eyes closed but don't go back to sleep, content just to lay with my cheek pillowed against Spike's arm.

I still don't know exactly what it is I'm feeling for him. But again, in light of the circumstances, it kind of feels like it doesn't matter.

Analyzing it all right now is a task my worn out brain is most definitely not up for.

Plus, his arm is super comfy.

He says he isn't going to turn me over to Wolfram and Hart, and I've decided to believe him.

Whether or not that's the best decision sort of remains to be seen.

Behind me, Spike shifts in his sleep, rolling away from me and subsequently pulling his arm out from under my head.

I turn over to face him, propping myself up on my elbows. The fluffy down comforter covers both of us up to our waists, but leaves our torsos bare.

In Spike's case, very bare.

He's lying flat on his back now, one arm draped over his chest and the other, the arm I'd been lying on, flung over his eyes. His platinum hair sticks up every which way in a messy disarray of tousled spikes, and even in his sleep, his chest moves up and down. Only occasionally, not the way it does when he's awake, and definitely not enough to give off the impression that he's actually breathing.

But enough. Just enough to remind me that while he isn't exactly living, he's anything but dead.

I flip over onto my stomach, fold my hands on the pillow in front of me and rest my chin on them.

I watch Spike sleep.

For a long time, probably a couple hours, I push all the worries and all the fears and anxieties out of my head and just watch him sleep.

After a little while, driven by some strange impulse, I begin to lightly map his upper body with my fingers. Just barely ghosting the tips of them over the skin that's exposed to me.

Starting with his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders. I trace the marks, the tiny blemishes I find marring his otherwise smooth skin. The long scar etched horizontally along the curve his shoulder nearest me, several more along his chest, and still more down his abdomen.

I wonder where they all came from. If they happened before, when he was live, or if they all came later.

How deep the wounds would have had to have been to leave lasting scars that his accelerated healing couldn't touch.

It's my light touch to his eyebrow, my gentle exploration of the scar there, which wakes him.

His hand shoots up, encircling my wrist with slender, gentle fingers.

My eyes meet his just as they flutter open.

"What's this, then?" He asks, voice thick with sleep.

I let my eyes drift from his back up the scar.

"Where'd you get this?"

Spike's hand slides down from my wrist to entwine with my fingers, pulling it gently back away from his face. He shifts into a sitting position.

The comforter falls a little further down, coming to rest just above his hips.

He ignores my question.

"Should be sleepin', luv."

I pull my hand away from his and push myself up into a seated position beside him, turning so my back presses into the wood headboard.

"I know," I mumble, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. "Just not that tired anymore."

I feel him nod, see him looking over at me out of the corner of my eye.

"Sword," he says after a minute, casually, like it's nothing. "During the Boxer Rebellion."

I turn my head toward him, one eyebrow raised.

"A sword?" I repeat, disbelieving. "What did you need a sword for?"

He tilts his head, eyes twinkling, grinning at me. "Wasn't my sword, luv."

I watch Spike lean back against the pillows, stretching his arms up over his head and clasping them behind his neck.

"Who's was it?"

His eyes shift toward me. "Belonged to the first slayer I killed."

Oh.

I grimace at him.

He must see it, must know what I'm thinking, because he sighs loudly and closing his eyes.

"Can't take that back, sweet. Wouldn't, even if I could." He opens them again, finding mine. "Part of who I am, yeah?"

My response comes out so quietly that I'm not even sure I've said it.

"Part of who I am, too."

He blinks at me.

"Buffy?"

I look at him for a brief second, then dart my eyes back down, crawling to get up out of bed. "Slayer blood," I explain, heading for my bag and a new pair of pants. "Slayer heritage. If we're right…about what's happening to me, then slaying…its part of who I am." I shrug. "I could be like them."

Spike frowns, but gets up out of bed and pads across the carpet his bag.

"Not sure I know what you're gettin' at, pet."

I turn to face him, my eyes searching his seriously.

"Do you want to kill me?" I ask, deliberately wording the question.

I watch his expression harden. "You know the answer to that."

He's right.

I do.

" _Will_ you want to kill me?" I rephrase, emphasizing the future tense.

I see it the moment he understands what I'm saying.

He shakes his head.

"Takin' down slayers is an honor, luv. A challenge. You havin' slayer blood…being a little stronger than average, s'not the sam—"

He doesn't see the swing coming until my knuckles are smashing into his jaw, sending him flying backward onto the mattress.

And there it is. With just one strike. That burning heat, blind rage, surging through my veins.

He scrambles back to his feet in front of me, brow furrowed, eyes blazing.

Mine blaze back.

"And what if I keep getting stronger, Spike?"

I swing again, a wild uppercut aimed at his jaw. It connects, and he stumbles backward.

I advance on him as he rights himself, my blood getting hot.

"What if you're right, and Wolfram and Hart's the least of my problems?" A right hook this time, which he sees just in time to block it. "What if that council or whatever comes for me next?"

Two quick jabs and a rough left cross, all blocked gracefully before Spike brings his palm down flat over my sternum and shoves.

I stumble back, chest heaving.

But I'm not finished.

"What if they make me fight?" I ask heatedly, spinning around. "Make me _slay_." I land a hard roundhouse kick to his chest as I say the word, knocking him backwards.

He stumbles, eyes searching mine, wild, hungry. I can feel the tension rolling off his body, every muscle coiled to strike.

There's rage. Disbelief. Heat.

Desire.

But he stays very still, jaw clenching, fighting every instinct he has.

"What about then?" I ask, crossing the small distance between us until I'm only about a foot away from him. I'm panting, nearly out of breath. "Will I be a big enough challenge for you then?"

We stare each other down for a long time. Pants mingling in the space between us, eyes narrowed. My fingers itch to reach out and touch him, but to do what, I'm not sure.

He shifts forward, just slightly, squaring his shoulders. For a tense moment I wonder if he's going to hit me.

He doesn't.

Instead, he starts advancing on me, step by deliberate step, backing me up until my hips bump into the marble counter top of the vanity.

His voice is a low, dangerous, when he finally speaks.

A throaty growl that sends tingles down my spine.

"You're playin' with fire, here."

I tilt my head to the side, considering him. I drop my voice down to match his. "So are you."

I throw my arms around his neck and cover his mouth with mine just as he puts both hands on my waist, lifting me up and slamming me down hard onto the marble counter.

I can't stop the small grunt of pained pleasure that escapes, his chipped black fingernails digging into the exposed skin just above my underwear.

I wrap my legs around his waist, yanking him against me. I can feel his arousal, hard as steel between my legs.

For me.

All for me.

I nibble his bottom lip, luxuriating in the deep growl that escapes his throat when I suck his tongue into my mouth.

Spike's hand slides up my back, tangles in the ends of my hair.

"God, I love this hair," he purrs, using his grip to pull until the crown of my head presses against the cool mirror behind me, back arched up toward him. He hums his approval as he trails hot, needy kisses down the exposed column of my throat.

When he reaches my clavicle he pauses, just long enough to grab hold of the neck of my t-shirt and rip it down the middle.

"Spike!" I whip my head up to look at him. He's gazing down at my exposed skin, eyes darkening.

Taking a small step away from me, never breaking my hold on his waist, he slides his hands slowly around and down my bare thighs.

" _Fuck_ , but you're gorgeous," he murmurs, palms sliding over my hips, up to my stomach. My eyes are on his face, his gaze riveted to the path his hands are taking.

"So sweet."

They slide further up, fingers ghosting along the swell of my breasts.

My body trembles beneath him, breath coming in quick, quivering gasps.

"So perfect."

Lightning quick, Spike tweaks the front clasp of my bra open. He hooks two nimble fingers through the straps at my shoulders, slides them sensuously down my arms along with the tattered remains of my t-shirt, until finally, I'm left bare before him.

He splays his fingers wide on either side of my back, just below my shoulder blades.

"So _mine_."

Spike pulls me toward him, arching my back, lowering his head to claim a taut nipple with his lips.

I let out a strangled cry of pleasure, throwing my head back into the mirror. My hands fly to his head, tunneling greedy fingers into his hair, tugging his mouth more firmly against me. He teases mercilessly, swirling his tongue in lavish circles, nipping at my breasts with blunt teeth.

He chuckles against me when I cry out again, the heel of his left hand now against my pelvis, pressing my hips down into the countertop, thumb moving in torturous circles through the soaked cotton of my underwear.

Then he presses down suddenly, hard with his thumb directly over the tender flesh.

My body shudders and jerks, legs tightening around him with an exhaled "Oh, God."

He does it again, harder this time, grinding his thumb into my clit and tugging on my sensitive nipple with his teeth.

My skin is hot, too tight, stretched to the breaking point with all my nerve endings ablaze.

My head is spinning.

It's too much.

All at once, too much and not enough.

Using my grip in his hair, I yank his head up and roughly shove him away from me. He stumbles back a half step, eyes glazed, narrowed. When my hands fly frantically to the button of his jeans, he smirks at me, understanding.

He lets me undo the button and pull down his zipper while he gives my underwear the same treatment he'd given my shirt earlier.

I'm about to say something, but then his tongue is back, tasting me, coaxing my mouth to open for his, and I don't care.

I'm lost.

Completely lost.

I vaguely hear the shifting of denim, feel strong fingers hooking around my hips to drag me forward. Then his hands are on my knees, pushing my legs apart, spreading me for him.

We gasp in unison, moaning into each other's mouths when he thrusts inside me, burying himself completely.

Spike doesn't wait for us to adjust this time. Lips against mine, hands gripping the swell of my back, he sets a punishing rhythm.

I start with my hands on his shoulders, move to his forearms, then finally have to grip the countertop on either side of my hips for balance.

I let my head and shoulders fall back, the force of his thrusts slamming me into the mirror with grueling force.

I barely feel it.

I use my leverage on the vanity to push my hips forward into his, seeking him, recapturing him every time he pulls out.

"Oh, fuck, pet," he groans, words matching the rhythm of his hips, "feels so bloody good."

I nod, unable to speak, my hands going to grip his forearms.

He shifts slightly, propping my left knee up over his shoulder, driving even deeper into me.

"Oh, God, _yes_."

Spike smirks, wraps his right hand around my thigh, places his left hand possessively over my pelvic bone.

Presses down.

I gasp.

He exerts force only slightly, rhythmically, timing it with each inward push of his hips until my inner muscles are spasming and clenching around him.

He leans down toward my bent leg, pressing hot, lazy kisses to my knee and upper thigh.

His eyes never leave mine.

There aren't words this time.

We don't need them.

When Spike bites down on the soft flesh of my thigh, nails digging into the skin at my lower belly, I come for him.

Gasping, moaning his name, drenching his cock.

With a hoarse shout, he follows me over the edge a moment later.

I don't know how long we stay like this.

His arms banded around my back, head on my chest. My hands run up and down his shoulder blades, legs spent, dangling a little awkwardly over the vanity counter.

"Never," he says after a while, turning his head towards me, placing a soft kiss on the swell of my breast.

"Never?" I ask, bringing one hand up to curl in his hair.

"I'll never want to kill you." He pushes himself up so he can look at my face. A little smile curves his lips, still swollen from my kisses. "No matter how big a _challenge_ you are."

I look at him thoughtfully, place both my hands on either side of his face.

My expression is serious.

"How do you know?"

"Just do," he says, reaching up to wipe a sweat slick strand of hair out of my face. "Plus, you know," he shrugs, "figure the bigger the challenge, the better the sex."

I groan loudly, but can't help laughing as he drops his head back down, nestling it in the crook of my neck. I can feel him smiling against my skin, his body warm from my body heat, and I repeat the word in my head again.

It's funny, I haven't noticed before.

It's a nice word.

 _Never._

"We should really talk about your anger issues," Spike teases, his head in my lap as we lay on the big white bed, waiting for sundown.

After showering and getting dressed, he'd decided it would be a good idea to order room service "while we can", and had proceeded to order almost the entire menu up to the room.

More than half of it remains untouched on the big roll up tray in front of us.

"Says the soulless vampire who lost his temper and bit me." I pop another grape in my mouth. " _I_ don't have anger issues."

"Says the slayerette who punches me in the face every chance she gets."

I look down at him, eyebrow raised. His eyes are sparkling, sky blue now.

"I don't do that."

It's his turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Only when you deserve it?"

Spike chuckles, letting his eyes drift shut. "S'alright, pet. S' in your blood, innit. Besides," he smirks, flicking his tongue out over his top lip, "right sexy when you get all hot and sweaty from a fight."

I shake my head, turning back to my plate of fruit. "You're a pig, Spike."

"And you're stuck with me." He settles down further into my lap, grinning, eyes still closed. "You're my prisoner."

He says it lightly, jokingly, like he doesn't give it a second thought.

But I freeze, a strawberry halfway to my lips.

He must notice the change in my body language, because his lashes flutter open, brow furrowing.

"Am I a prisoner, Spike?"

He frowns, pushes himself off my lap and into a sitting position. "Do you feel like one?"

I have to think about it for a moment before answering.

I don't want to hurt his feelings.

I don't want to make him angry.

But I don't want to lie, either.

"I don't feel like I can leave," I say quietly, honestly, dropping my hand with the strawberry into my lap. "I don't feel like I can choose not to go to New York with you." I drop my eyes down. "Choose to go home."

Spike stiffens.

It takes him a minute to respond, but when he does, his voice is calm.

"Do you want to go home, Buffy?"

I sigh, reaching over to place the berry on the plate and force myself to meet his gaze. His eyes are stormy, swirling indigo. I swallow. "What if I told you I did?"

His jaw ticks, and I can see him fighting to remain calm.

His eyes blaze, but his voice stays even. "You're not safe there, pet."

I look at him openly, honestly, and murmur "But I am with you?"

His eyes flash, the strained, calm facade cracking just slightly.

"Safer with me than you'd be anywhere else." He twists his body toward me, putting his hands down on either side of my lap. "S'long as Wolfram and Hart have it out for you, you won't be able to stop movin'."

I know he's right. It's the same argument I had with myself outside in that parking lot, the morning that feels like it was year's ago now.

"I know." I keep my eyes on his, trying to make him understand. "I just…my dad, Spike. My dad—"

"What about your Dad, luv? What about your friends?" He shakes his head. "You go home now, you put everyone you love at risk."

The thought flashes across my mind so quickly it nearly knocks me over.

 _Not everyone._

I shake my head, clearing it quickly.

 _Whoa._

"I can protect you," he's whispering now, lifting one hand to run it over my hair. "Let me protect you."

I shake my head, gripping his hand in mine and pulling it away from me.

"Protect me how, Spike?" I drop his hand and crawl to the edge of the bed, standing up. I begin to pace. "By taking me right to the people who are hunting me?"

He twists around to face me, setting his feet on the floor.

"You don't want to go to New York?"

I blink at him, eyes going wide. "I never _wanted_ to go to New York!"

Spike has the decency to look sheepish for a moment, but he doesn't back down.

He stands up and walks toward me, only stopping when I put my hands out to stay him.

He can't touch me right now.

If he touches me, I'll forget my argument.

He stops a couple feet from me, hands raised toward me, palms out in a calming gesture.

"Thought you wanted answers, luv." He tilts his head to the side, frowning. "Don't you wanna know what's happenin' to you?"

I nod absently, still pacing, running my fingers through my hair.

"Answers would be great, sure. I'd love to know what kind of freak I am. I'd like to find out what really happened to mom. I'd like to know why I was kept in the dark about all this," I gesture widely, encompassing the entire situation, "for my _entire_ life. But at what cost, Spike?"

His voice is low and deadly. "Won't let those sods lay so much as a bloody _finger_ on you."

"And you really think you can stop them?" I yell, whirling on him.

He shifts backwards, away from me, the same hurt flashing in his eyes that had broken my heart just yesterday.

 _Oh, boy._

I'm in deep.

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose. "These people...they came after you, right? They came after Angelus, and God knows how many others. They offered you something powerful. In exchange for _me_." I open my eyes, looking at him sadly. "Those sound like the kind of people that'll play a round of 20 questions and then say see ya later?"

He's quiet for a long moment.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet that I have to strain to hear him.

"Wolfram and Hart aren't the only ones in New York can give you answers, pet."

I turn fully toward him, brows knitting together. The expression on his face is strange. It's resigned, but also a little…guilty?

But that's not right. It can't be.

All we've ever talked about regarding New York is Wolfram and Hart.

The two have become so synonymous with one another in my mind that trying to separate them now is tripping me up.

I narrow my gaze on him.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm sayin," he takes a step toward me, eyes traveling my face, "there are people in New York that can tell you about your mum. About you. Maybe not everythin', but enough."

My heart is pounding.

"And you can find them? These people?"

He nods, lips set in a grim line. "Person. Yeah."

"Who is it?"

"Your mum's watcher, Richard." He sighs, looking down at the floor. "Last I heard he was still livin' there."

I frown.

Watcher?

As in...Council of Watchers?

As in council that controls the slayers?

Spike sees the myriad of emotions play across my face, from confusion, to doubt to fear, and as usual, reads my mind.

"S'not what you think, luv." He crosses the room to his duster, picking it up from where he'd left crumpled on the floor the night before. He digs out a cigarette, lights it. "He's retired."

Oh.

Well, that's something.

And if there's anyone guaranteed to be able to answer my questions about my mom's life as the slayer, it would be the man assigned to watch over her.

Then a thought occurs to me.

I watch Spike take a long drag off his cigarette, letting his eyes close as he exhales.

He's standing directly in front of the no smoking sign.

The image would be enough to make me laugh if my head weren't spinning.

"Do you know all the slayer's watchers?" I ask, eyeing him warily from across the room.

His eyes snap open. The room's been steadily growing darker, and I can't read his expression from where I'm standing.

"Only a few of 'em," he says, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth, staring at it instead of at me.

He's being weird.

Avoidy.

My stomach flips.

"By name?" I ask, side-stepping toward him, trying to get a better view of his face.

He twists his head to the side, cracking his neck. "A few of 'em."

Only a few of them.

Only a few…

I freeze, my eyes going wide. All the air feels like it's been sucked out of the room, sucked from my lungs, at once.

" _Met a few slayers in my time."_

No.

Please no.

" _So, when you say 'met'..."_

Spike still won't look at me.

 _"Killed, yeah."_

"Oh, God," I whisper, horrified, my hand flying to my mouth.

His eyes whip to mine, and he rushes at me so fast I don't have time to shove him away before his arms are around me, cigarette forgotten.

"Shh," he murmurs, running his hand down the back of my head, "shh, pet."

Hot tears fill my eyes and I shove him away from me, so hard he slams back into the wall and knocks the no smoking sign down.

My chest is heaving. I feel like I might hyperventilate and pass out at any moment.

I try to speak, try to scream, but no words come out.

I think I might be sick.

"Buffy," Spike puts his hands out in front of him, edging back towards me, "s'not what you think. Just listen to me."

I don't get a chance to.

One moment we're standing in the hotel bedroom alone, the next the door's being busted down with a crash and we're entirely surrounded. People line the room on either side, faces completely covered in black masks. Some are holding stakes, others carrying what looks like some kind of high powered rifle.

I'm not sure. I've never been gun girl.

I scan the room in a panic, my brain frantically trying to play catch up.

They've found us.

 _Someone's_ found us.

I shoot a glance at the window. Sure enough, it's nearly pitch black outside.

 _This is bad._

When I look back at Spike, he's vamped out. He's snarling at the intruders around sharp, glinting fangs, hunched in a defensive position.

Then his golden eyes meet mine, and I see it.

Fear.

 _Gallons of bad._


	19. Chapter 18

_This is bad, this is bad, this is bad._

It runs through my head, over and over again, like a mantra.

I keep expecting one of the masked figures to do something. Do anything.

Long moments pass, and it's like we're all frozen to the spot. Half their eyes are glued on me, the other, to Spike.

But nobody moves.

Then it dawns on me.

Whoever these people are, it's becoming increasingly clear the longer we stand here that they can't make a definitive move without someone else's go ahead.

They're waiting for someone.

The question is who?

And why should we stick around to find out?

I make eye contact with Spike again, and I can see that he's just had the same thought I have.

It happens so fast.

Spike's golden eyes flash, and he lets out a primal growl. Then he takes off, bolting across the room toward me, looking for all the world like he's about to tackle me to the ground.

I brace for the impact.

It doesn't come.

When I look back toward where I'd last seen him, he's pinned against the wall.

One of the masked men holds the tip of a very sharp looking stake to his chest.

My stomach drops.

"No," I say sharply, hands out in front of me, unthinkingly taking a step toward him.

His eyes shoot to mine and he gives me a warning growl. "Don't."

I immediately step back, but my heart is pounding a thunderous rhythm in my chest, and my head feels light.

All the anger, all the betrayal I'd felt just moments ago numbs a little around the edges as I stare at Spike.

At the man in front of him.

At the stake.

The word echoes, reverberating through my brain.

 _No._

I can't focus on anything put the pointed wooden tip over Spike's heart.

Images of Lenny poofing, crumbling into dust, into _nothing,_ fill my mind's eye.

No.

I don't know why the sudden fear of losing Spike forever suddenly has me gripped in its vice. Just days ago, I was his captive. I rack my brain, trying to figure out why now, he feels like so much more than that. When had it all started to change?

 _There wouldn't even be a body._

I decide in this moment that there's no way I'm letting this happen. I won't watch this nameless, faceless man end Spike's existence.

Besides, if he really did kill my mom... I want to do it myself.

I'm scanning the room, looking for a way out, trying to figure out how to knock the stake away, when I hear it.

The voice.

Cold and smooth, floating to us from outside the bedroom. Cruel and dripping with a kind of teasing hatred I've never heard before.

My blood freezes in my veins.

"Well, lookie here."

A shrill tingle shoots down my spine, chest tightening as the owner of the voice steps leisurely around the corner and into the bedroom.

The hulking, dark haired figure tilts his head to the side, smiling at me. "Isn't this…cozy."

My first thought is immediate, instinctual.

 _Vampire._

I can tell by the way he walks. The same even, predatory grace I've seen from Spike so many times as he effortlessly parts the line of black masked men and approaches me.

I can tell by the pallor of his skin.

By the lack of breath. I can see his chest, deathly still as he comes to a stop right in front of me.

But the real giveaway is his face. The twisted smile, the deadness in the eyes.

There's nothing behind them.

Only cruelty.

And for some reason, I can't look away.

"You must be Elizabeth," he says, lips quirking wickedly in what might be a charming grin if he wasn't so imposing.

If I didn't know otherwise.

"Buffy," I correct him dazedly, automatically, eyes riveted on his face.

He chuckles and continues advancing on me, backing me up until my knees brush the mattress behind me.

"Buffy."

The way he says it makes goosebumps break out down my arms. He raises a hand, ghosts the tips of his fingers over my collar bone.

"Get your bleedin' hands off her!"

Spike's voice cuts through the haze, breaking the spell. I shiver and back up as far as I can, swatting his beefy hand away from me.

The brunette vampire sighs, rolling his eyes, and turns around slightly to face where the man still has Spike pinned.

I can just see him over the hulking shoulder before me.

"Spike, my boy," he chuckles darkly, tilting his head, "How've you been?"

Spike snarls. "Sod off."

"Oh, come on now." The larger vampire turns fully toward him, clasping his hands loosely behind his back and taking a few steps closer. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

I freeze, staring, heart thudding so loud I'm sure everyone can hear it.

Spike's golden gaze narrows on the brunette, doing his best to defiantly puff out his chest, even with the end of the stake pressing there.

"Got yourself a funny definition of the word _friend_ ," he bites out around his fangs, "don't you, Angelus?"

Angelus.

 _Angelus._

The world stops, tilts at a funny angle, proceeds to spin rapidly backwards.

My face flushes, sweat beading up along my forehead. I start to sway on my feet.

I think I'm gonna be sick.

"Someone's testy." Angelus clicks his tongue reproachfully. "Worried I'll take your new play thing away?"

Spike growls loudly.

"You lay one sodding finger on her and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Angelus asks mockingly, clearly delighting in the situation he's found himself in. "You'll scold me? Growl at me again?" He flicks his wrist, gesturing off handedly toward the masked thug next to Spike who immediately digs the tip of the stake in deeper. I see him wince. "Sorry, _Willie_ ," the larger vampire coos. "Doesn't look like you're in the best position to be making threats."

My eyes go wide when Spike starts to laugh.

"Thought you were the big man, Angelus." The fire in his eyes blazes defiantly, smug smirk falling into place. "Since when do you need lackeys to do your dirty work?"

Angelus narrows his eyes just slightly, but the cruel smile never leaves his face.

"These aren't my lackeys, Spike." He crosses his arms over his chest. "They're...on loan."

"From Wolfram and Hart?"

I don't realize I've spoken until all eyes are suddenly on me.

"Well, aren't you clever," The brunette says snidely, turning to angle his body back toward mine. "What gave it away? The fact that they showed up with me, or was it some other painfully obvious reason?"

He turns to Spike, jerking a thumb back at me. "She's cute. Not too bright though."

Spike isn't amused.

"How'd you find us?"

"Oh, Spikey," Angelus exhales a sigh, like he's had this conversation a million times and doesn't understand why we still don't get it. "I've had people following you for _a while_ now." He frowns then, almost pouting. The expression is so completely ridiculous that I almost laugh.

Until he speaks again.

"Don't tell me you didn't get my messages."

My stomach rolls, bile rising in my throat, assaulted by flashes of the newspaper headlines, the breaking news on the TV.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

And he's still speaking.

"Besides, you think you're the only one with connections in this town?"

I open my eyes again, this time finding Spike. The expression on his face is unreadable.

"Barus Demons," Angelus continues, "only too happy to rat out the big bad for someone bigger and badder." He grins. "For the right price."

With that, the bigger vampire turns his cold, hungry gaze on me once more, eyeing me up and down pointedly.

My blood runs cold. My blood rushes in my ears. My hands shake.

But I school my face to be calm.

I can do that, at least.

"You shouldn't have come here," I say, forcing my voice out through cracking, dry lips, hating how shaky it sounds.

Angelus shrugs, angling his head toward the floor as he steps closer.

He comes to a stop in front of me, a little to my right.

"Our pal Spike here should've finished the job and I wouldn't have had to." His gaze travels over me, making my skin crawl. "But follow through…well," cold eyes find mine, that cruel smile twisting his lips, "that's never been his strong suit."

He's so close to me.

His hulking form completely dwarfs mine and I have to crane my neck back a little to keep eye contact, our height difference made even bigger by the fact that I'm still bare foot.

"As for the dirty work, Spike," He tosses a casual glance back over his shoulder, smirking, then turns back to me. His eyes go black, voice dropping to a low purr. "You know that's my favorite part."

Spike gives a loud, growling "No!" from somewhere deep in his chest, and my eyes fly instinctively back to his.

Even in the demonic visage, I've never seen eyes more expressive than his.

Pain. Rage. Fear.

Guilt.

It's all there, reflected back at me through glittering gold.

And that's when I realize that there's no way out of this.

It's over.

Angelus is here. He's found us. He has a whole team of flunkies here, armed, surrounding us.

He's going to take me.

Give me to Wolfram and Hart.

And probably stake Spike for good measure.

Every muscle, every _bone_ in my body cries out in protest at the thought, a new wave of nausea churning my gut.

And somehow, for whatever reason, it's this last thought more than any of the other that spurs me forward.

It isn't rational.

It isn't well thought out.

It's a gut reaction.

And it's a bad one.

I launch myself at Angelus before I can think about it, one fist connecting with the sharp corner of his jaw, the other landing hard in the side of his ribcage.

He grunts, stumbles away from me, then lunges forward without missing a beat. He grabs one of my wrists and pulls, yanking me off my feet and sending me sailing into the wall.

The impact is so hard that it causes a crack in the white plaster, knocks the wind from my lungs. The back of my head hits the plaster with a smack and I fall onto my hands and knees, gasping.

I just barely hear the shout of my name before its cut off, drowned out by Spike's roar of pain.

I whip my head up just in time to watch him crumple to the ground.

 _Oh, God._ "No!"

I scramble unsteadily to my feet, head pounding, and leap toward him.

I don't get far before a strong hand wraps around my upper arm and yanks me back.

I watch, wide eyed and panting, as Spike writhes in agony on the plush carpet. His mouth is twisted in a silent scream.

Freezing in place, horrified, I watch helplessly and wait for him to disintegrate before my eyes.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't dust.

Confused, I turn my gaze on the armed man standing now over him, eyes lighting on the angry looking sparks crackling from the tip of a long black pole.

A cattle prod?

Relief floods my chest, warring with confusion.

I frown.

Why didn't they just stake him?

I watch as two of the bigger masked intruders haul him up by the arms. Spike's still conscious, eyes slitted open and groaning weakly, but he sags against their hold on him like a rag doll, clearly unable to stand on his own.

And now I'm alone.

A room full of people, but I feel completely alone.

With Angelus.

Who's hand is so tight on my arm now that it's cutting off my circulation.

"Someone needs to teach you some manners, _Buff_ ," he whispers cruelly, then bites down hard with blunt teeth on the curve of my ear.

It hurts.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out and my legs start to shake. All the while Spike's words are echoing in my ears, the haunted look in his eyes swimming before me...

 _"_ _..you won't be you anymore."_

In a last fit of panic, of utter and complete desperation, I bring my elbow back as hard as I can and directly into his stomach.

He inhales sharply, grunting in pain, but his hold on me never loosens. One large hand wraps around my neck, and he uses his grip to shove me hard back into the wall.

My eyes go wide as he starts to exert pressure, the palm of his hand pressing right over my windpipe.

My hands fly to his wrist, urgently trying to pry his grip from my throat.

He chuckles at my effort.

And he's so strong.

Stronger than me, even now with what extra strength I have.

And I can't breathe.

 _I can't_ breathe _._

My vision starts to blur, black spots clouding my sight.

It feels like any second he'll crush my windpipe completely.

I shoot my fist out in blind panic, connecting with the bridge of his nose.

His head snaps back, but his hold doesn't lowers his gaze back down slowly until his eyes are even with mine.

They burn with malice.

"That wasn't very nice," he chastises me lightly, even as his grip tightens.

I can feel all the blood in my face, flushing into my cheeks, hot tears flooding my eyes.

I gasp, frantic for air, clawing at his hand.

He vamps out, and I watch as the bones shift, ridges forming over his brow, fangs elongating. His yellow eyes are cold, gleaming and dead. That wicked mockery of a smile twists his mouth.

This is what it looks like.

Pure, undiluted evil.

For a split second, the longest second of my life, I believe that this is it.

He's going to kill me.

To hell with everything Spike's told me about him. Forget about the fact that Wolfram and Hart needs me alive. With my back against the wall, struggling desperately for air, feeling the first true, mind numbing fear I think I've ever felt in my life...I feel certain.

He's going to kill me.

 _This face is the last thing I'll ever see._

"Does someone want to tell me exactly what's going on here?"

It's a new voice, slicing through the haze, the growing darkness like a scythe.

I can't see its owner past the little black spots pin pricking my vision, but I hear it.

Angelus rolls his golden eyes and finally, _finally_ his grip on my throat loosens as he turns to throw a glance back over his shoulder.

Not a lot, just enough for me to draw in a deep, ragged breath.

But still, he doesn't remove his hand.

"Just having a little fun," he says, turning his demon's blazing eyes back to mine. "You're late."

The new voice huffs, sounding frustrated." I wouldn't have been late if you'd have bothered to call us sooner."

Angelus growls and lets go of my neck completely to turn on the new arrival, dropping me roughly back to my feet. I wobble unsteadily, coughing, hand flying up to cover the swelling skin of my throat.

I hadn't realized he'd lifted me from the ground until now.

"What did you want me to do?" He begins walking forward, away from me.

As he does, my vision starts to clear and I can just make out the shorter man standing at the open French doors to the bedroom.

"Call before I was sure?" Angelus is saying, "Have you fly all the way out here for nothing?"

The man at the doors frowns, straightens his tie.

He stands out in this crowd like a sore thumb, navy suit and blood red tie over a crisp, white button down.

Lawyer. Probably.

He clears his throat. "You were under strict instructions—"

"To call you once I'd found the girl," Angelus finishes the sentence with a wave of his hand, sounding bored. He gestures behind him, back toward me. "That's what I did."

The probably-a-lawyer gives him a discerning look, then folds his arms over his chest. "A full day _after_ your van had spotted them."

My ears perk up as I rub the tender skin over my windpipe.

So the van had been his. Spike had been right.

"Still called, didn't I?" Angelus huffs, sounding more irritated by the second. " _And_ I found her. You know," he flicks his wrists, turning his palms out in front of him, "you should be _thanking_ me."

The probably-a-lawyer doesn't look like he agrees.

"You don't give the orders here," he says hotly, eyes narrowed. He exhales through his nose, bringing his arms down, clasping his hands together in front of him. He drops his gaze. "The Senior Partners aren't happy."

Angelus groans. "Are they ever?"

The lawyer doesn't look like he has anything to say to that.

Angelus barrels on, turning back to look at me. His eyes flash.

"I have half a mind just to take what I'm owed right now."

My breath hitches in my throat.

A flash of fear passes over the other man's face. "It doesn't work like that."

Angelus whirls back to face him. "It works the way I say it does, Lindsey."

 _Lindsey?_

The sound of Spike's chuckle has me whipping my head around toward him. He still looks weak, still obviously can't support his own weight.

But his eyes are fully open, his signature smirk back in place.

I feel a surge of relief flood my veins.

"So _you're_ the poofter with the nancy boy name," he says, voice hoarse. He tilts his head. "Actually, not as dainty as I expected."

Lindsey gives Spike a cursory glance before turning his attention back to Angelus.

"We have a deal. Do you want to jeopardize that now?"

I can't see the look on his face, but I imagine it isn't a pleasant one.

"Think of it more as an insurance policy," he snarks.

Then he whirls around, fangs bared, and lunges for my throat.

I freeze. Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for the sting of his bite.

It never comes.

When I open my eyes, he's staring down at me in a mixture of pure malice and stunned confusion. His hand flies out, quick as lightning, yanking my hair back further away from my neck.

His eyes go wide, nostrils flaring.

"He _bit_ you?" He asks me, then whirls on Spike. "You _bit_ her?"

He looks about as confused as I am, but covers quickly, a haughty expression drifting over his features.

"I did," he says impassively. "What of it?"

The room is stalk still, dead silent, for all of about one second.

And then it explodes.

Angelus roars, wheeling toward me, smashing a ham handed fist into the plaster beside my head.

"You fucking _moron_ ," he hisses, turning to look at the blonde vampire again, fist still lodged in the wall beside me. "Did you drink her blood?"

Spike blinks at him. "Well," his brow furrows, "yeah, but—"

Angelus pushes off the wall with a snarl and flies at Lindsey, coming to a stop just inches away from the smaller man. He leans over him, their noses almost touching.

His voice is strained when he asks, "Can it be undone?"

I blink rapidly, frowning, looking over at Spike.

He's back in human visage as he meets my gaze immediately.

The same look passes over both our faces, and this time, we read each other's minds.

 _What the hell just happened?_

"I-I don't know," Lindsey sputters, looking around Angelus' shoulder, gaze traveling rapidly between myself and Spike.

Apparently, "I don't know" was not the right answer.

The brunette vampire grabs him up by the lapels of his jacket, shaking him hard. "What do you mean you don't _know_?"

Lindsey's frightened gaze suddenly turns steely.

He puts his hands on Angelus' chest, shoving him away as roughly as he can. His eyes are narrowed to slits.

"I only know what they tell me," he says angrily, adjusting his tie.

The words strike a chord with me. I remember Spike saying almost the exact same thing once before.

"Gee" Angelus snarls, falling into a low crouch. He looks like he's about to lunge. "That's a lot of _fucking_ help."

Lindsey puts a hand out to stay him, speaking quickly. "We can find out, alright? Just calm down." He turns his attention to me, then to Spike, then back to me again. "We'll have to take them both back with us and—"

Angelus cuts him off, jabbing a finger at him. "If you think I'm going to let that sorry excuse for a vampire take what _I've_ earned—"

Spike's sudden shout cuts through the heated argument like a knife.

"Now hold on a bloody second!"

Every eye turns on him.

His azure eyes sweep the room, finally settling on Lindsey.

"Anyone wanna clue me in here?"

Lindsey opens his mouth to speak but Angelus cuts him off. "I don't have time for you, Spike."

His eyes narrow, voice dropping dangerously low. He makes for a threatening image, even sandwiched in between two masked figures.

"Maybe you should make time, _mate_." He cocks his head to the side, eyeing the larger vampire up and done. "Seem to be awfully upset about somethin' I've done, after all."

When no one makes a move to respond, he pushes forward. "How does me bitin' Buffy make any never mind to you?"

Again, no answer.

Angelus and Lindsey are both turned toward Spike, Lindsey with his arms folded and Angelus with his hands on his hips.

A breathless moment passes between us all.

Frustrated, Spike sighs. "How's that goin' to keep you from gettin' the Gem?"

This gets a response.

"You idiot," Angelus hisses, "It was never about the Gem."

Spike's brow furrows as he digest this information.

"Then what did they promise you?"

All eyes turn to me when I ask, stepping forward off the wall. My hand is still at my throat, rubbing the tender skin. To my left, Spike shifts slightly, looking like he wants to move.

The brunette vampire watches me heatedly, back in his human guise too. I keep my eyes locked on his as I ask again.

"What did they offer you in exchange for bringing me in?"

The answer comes immediately, sharp and hard, with a sneer.

"You _._ "


	20. Chapter 19

"You."

 _What?_

"Me," I repeat.

It isn't a question. My voice is flat, almost monotone.

My mind reels, staring at him with a blank expression.

Me.

It doesn't make sense.

The gem, the gem...that made sense. That I could understand. Offer the vamps something that they want, something they need, in exchange for what Wolfram and Hart wanted.

Needed.

Me.

But Angelus says it isn't the gem. That it's never been about the gem.

So, they offered him me.

 _Why?_

Why would they ever offer him me, if they were wanting me for themselves? Hadn't that been the whole point of this?

The reason they'd hired Spike in the first place?

Unless...they lied. Lied to Angelus. Told him what he wanted to hear so they could keep him under their thumb.

Could they have lied?

It seems possible. Probable, even. Wolfram and Hart isn't stupid, and Angelus seems...unpredictable.

 _To say the major least._

As if to illustrate this exact point, across from me, the brunette vampire's leer turns wicked. "Yes, you." He says, snarling. "Made ourselves a little deal. I bring you to them. They get what they _need_ ," his dark eyes flash hungrily, "I get what I _want_."

I feel the breath catch in my throat as he prowls closer to me and grabs my arms with large, beefy hands. I freeze, holding my breath as he drops his head and inhales sharply, his nose skimming along my cheekbone.

My eyes find Spike's from over Angelus' hulking shoulder. Wide, raging, full of unconcealed panic. The look in them tells me exactly what he thinks it is Angelus wants.

My blood runs cold again.

 _No._

No. Wolfram and Hart wouldn't go through all this effort just to hand me over to someone like _him_ once they're through with me. Use all these resources. Spend all this time.

Just to let Angelus have me... _that_ way?

I squeeze my eyes shut, suddenly acutely aware of who it is, what it is, I'm talking about.

The answer? Yes.

 _Absolutely, yes._

And why not? Maybe what they need me for is something easily obtained. Maybe I'm not worth anything, alive or dead, once they've gotten what they want...

Still.

I'm no great prize. I'm no immortality giving jewel. Simply possessing me, especially after the law firm has taken what they need from me...why would that be enough for Angelus?

Enough to make him follow their orders?

What can I possibly offer that makes me worth so much to so many?

I rack my brain, frozen in place, trying to sort through everything I know. Everything that could matter.

Everything that makes me worth all this. 

_I'm the daughter of a slayer._

 _Her blood runs in my veins._

 _For whatever reason, reasons we can't explain, that blood has begun making its presence known._

 _In the form of exaggerated healing and strength._

That can't be it. That isn't enough. No matter how different, how exceptional it all seems.

There's more to it. More to _me_.

More to all of this than either Spike or I could have possibly guessed.

 _The only question now is what._

I'm torn from my thoughts when Angelus suddenly releases me, hard enough to make me stumble, whipping around to glare daggers toward Spike.

"That is," he growls, stepping away from me, "unless your little boyfriend here's gone and fucked it all up."

I can breathe again now that he's no longer in my personal space, but the sensation only lasts a moment before I see him approaching where Spike's still propped up limply between two of the men.

Suddenly, he reaches out and puts his hands roughly on Spike, digging his fingers into the cotton of his t-shirt and yanking him forward until their faces are almost touching. "God," he hisses, voice positively dripping with years of pent up hatred, "will some things _never_ change."

"I think that's enough."

It's Lindsey again. My eyes flash toward him, having practically forgotten his presence in the midst of all the wigginess that is this newest development.

He's standing on the edge of the crowd still, looking a little uncomfortable.

"If you want this little _issue_ resolved," He presses, "we need to get going. Now."

Despite the authoritative tone in his voice, it's clear that he's wary of Angelus. He stands well away from him, angling himself behind two of the armed men. One carries a stake. The other, a cattle prod.

Angelus turns his head and fixes the lawyer with a cold glare.

The two don't trust each other.

 _Probably for good reason._

I wonder briefly if it's something that I might be able to exploit, but I don't get a chance to flush the thought out before Angelus suddenly whirls around, snatching a cattle prod out of the hand of the nearest masked guard and levels it at Lindsey's chest.

 _Very good reason._

"Oh, Lindsey," the vampire says, chuckling, a sudden, wicked grin on his lips. "It's so _cute_ that you really think you're calling the shots here."

Surprisingly, Lindsey stands his ground.

"As long as the Senior Partners get what they want, you'll get what we've promised." He calmly straightens his shoulders, clasping his hands together. "Until then, you play by our rules."

Angelus looks like he's considering this, still smirking.

"And those rules are?" He asks as he casually starts to play with the cattle prod, swinging it around as though it were nothing more than a bandleader's baton.

The effect is as chilling as he wants it to be.

"No more of this macho vampire crap," Lindsey says quickly, still calm, though his lips are set in a grim line. "You won't lay a hand on either of them again, not until we get them back and figure out what we're dealing with here."

Angelus' eyes narrow, but the smile never leaves his twisted mouth.

"Fine," he says, tilting his head to the side.

Lindsey looks skeptical. "Fine?"

Angelus nods, bringing the swinging cattle prod to a stop up in front of his face, as though it were a sword. "I won't lay a hand on them." He muses softly, eyes traveling from the bottom of the cattle prod to the top.

The way Angelus says it, the emphasis in the words, the way he's eyeing the weapon in his hand...it's obvious. So obvious what it is he's thinking.

What he's about to do.

My whole body is tense, coiled, ready at any given moment to run.

But when he wheels around and presses the crackling tip of the cattle prod into my stomach, it happens so fast. Too fast for me to react.

Through the cotton of my t-shirt, I feel the stinging jolt shoot through my body, sending ripples of white hot electricity coursing through my veins.

My legs give out and I drop to my knees with just enough time to hear the room erupt in a chorus of wild shouts, to see Spike break the hold on his arms and leap staggeringly toward Angelus.

And then the room goes black.

When I come to, I'm lying on a seemingly carpeted floor. I'm on my back, hands bound together in metal handcuffs resting against my waist. There's something that feels a lot like a pillow below my head.

I frown.

Are we still in the hotel room?

My head is pounding, throat dry. I blink my eyes open slowly, trying to take in my surroundings and my bleary eyes finally zero in on the soft fluorescent light over my head. There's a hollow buzzing in my ears.

"Buffy."

It comes from my left, barely penetrating the fog in my head.

I shift slightly, a soft, whimpering groan escaping my lips at the effort.

 _Oh, God._

Everything hurts.

"Buffy," my name again, still from the left, "sweetheart, look at me."

It's Spike's voice. A low, urgent whisper. I recognize it through the dimness, echoing strangely in my mind as though he's very far away.

I blink a few more times, vision slowly growing less bleary, then steel myself, begin to turn my head toward the sound of his voice.

It takes all my effort, and it's so incredibly painful.

My spine feels like it's been fused, vertebrae fused all the way up to my neck.

The sight of Spike's face does little to lessen the pain, but it does make the tightening knot in my chest loosen a little.

He's here. Still here, still with me.

 _Not dust._

"There you are," he says softly, almost echoing my thoughts. His eyes are wide, deep navy, searching my face wildly even as a small, strained smile curves his lips. "Had me worried for a tic, pet."

I blink my bleary eyes at him, trying to focus, to remember where we are.

How we got here.

"Where…" I start to ask, then stop, frowning.

Spike's laying propped up on his side, and his hands are bound, too. Except his are behind his back, shoulders pinched and twisted painfully. He has a deep, jagged gash running across one side of his face, from the top of his hairline down to his eye. I stare at him a moment, then ask "What happened to your face?"

The gash is still bleeding, so it has to be fairly recent.

Spike looks confused by my question for a moment, but then his eyes widen in understanding. "Oh, this?" He gestures with a raise of his scarred eyebrow toward the cut. "'S nothin."

It's at this moment I notice the bruising, large, purplish welts raised on the underside of his jaw, up the side of his neck. There's a tear in his t-shirt, a burn mark visible through the gaps in the fabric that I can see despite the leather duster that covers more than half of it.

He tilts his head a little to the side. His right eye is badly swollen.

Rage bubbles up in my chest.

 _Angelus._

"Spike," I whisper, my voice sounding hollow, horrified. "What did he do to you?"

Spike drops his eyes from mine but doesn't roll away from me.

"I told you, s' nothin'." He rolls his shoulders back, and I can hear the joints cracking. "Already startin' to mend."

But it isn't nothing. It's obvious by looking at him that his accelerated healing hasn't even started.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Spike—"

"And so are you, by the look of things," he interrupts me, bringing his eyes back up. I watch them travel along the side of my neck, where I can feel the larger vampire's handprint throbbing, beginning to fade as it heals. "Bruises round your neck'll be gone by morning."

 _Morning._

What time is it?

"How long was I out?" I ask, trying to turn my body onto its side so I can see him better.

I wince when all my muscles cry out in protest, when my bound hands brush against the burn mark from the cattle prod.

Spike makes a pained face, but it's obvious it's in reaction to mine and not his own.

"Dunno exactly," he says lowly, casting a quick glance toward what looks like a curtain hanging from the ceiling, blocking us off from whatever lies past it. "Went a little mad after fuckin' Angelus…" He trails off, pain clouding his eyes as he looks at me.

There's such concern there, such affection. It's almost too much. Overwhelming.

No one in the world has ever looked at me all the ways that Spike does.

"What happened?" I ask, keeping my voice low, too.

We're clearly alone wherever we are now, but who knows for how long, and I'm in no hurry to draw any attention to ourselves.

Spike sighs, stormy blue eyes boring into mine.

"We had… _words_." He smirks tellingly, but the expression loses a little of its potency when he winces suddenly. "After what he did to you. That Lindsey fellow put a stop to it, but not before he'd gotten me bruised good and proper." His voice is off handed, casual, but the angry swelling across his face belies the tone. He shrugs. "Woke up here bout a half hour ago."

I want to ask him for more details, but I know it'll only make me angry.

Anger won't do us any favors right now.

It'll only make us sloppy.

So I just nod, ask him another question. "And where is _here_ exactly?"

"Airplane, near as I can figure. Never actually been on one before myself. Bloody flyin' deathtraps, s'what they are."

He casts a glance toward the blue curtain separating us from whoever else is on the plane, and suddenly a lot of things start to make sense. The buzzing in my ears. The gentle rocking.

I tilt my head back as far as I can, gratified when it doesn't hurt quite as bad as it had a moment ago, and I spot what has to be the cockpit door.

Airplane. The front of an airplane.

I frown.

No, not an airplane. A jet. Probably private.

I don't know for sure, but I have a hard time believing they'd risk taking us on a commercial flight.

Plus, the carpeted floor...sort of a giveaway.

"On our way to New York, if I've heard 'em right," Spike's saying as I turn my eyes back to his. I raise my eyebrows at him, and he shrugs the best he can. "Not nearly as discreet as they think they are."

I roll back onto my back with a huff, squeezing my eyes shut.

New York.

Wolfram and Hart.

After everything, it's _still_ coming down to this.

Only now, there's no way out.

And I've endangered Spike's life, too.

"What's going to happen to us now?" I ask, more to myself than because I'm expecting an actual answer.

The question feels significant. Not _me_. Not what's going to happen to _me_.

Us.

Because it isn't just about me anymore. It can't be.

"Wish I knew, kitten," I hear him say, exhaling a small sigh. Then, "Don't think they have plans to kill either of us, though. Not right away, at least. Otherwise, we wouldn't be havin' this conversation, yeah?"

I think back to what happened in the hotel room. How they'd had that stake over Spike's heart, poised, ready, and used the cattle prod to subdue him instead.

I twist my head back toward him. The pinching is much less now.

"Why didn't they dust you?" I ask, putting voice to the thought.

Spike looks at me seriously, something that might be a little mischievous twinkling in his eyes.

"Apparently," he says meaningfully, "I'm worth somethin', too."

My eyes widen a little.

"The bite…"

He nods.

"That's what I'm thinkin'." Spike frowns, dark brows knitting together. "Though, gotta say, can't rightly figure what that's got to do with anythin'." He frowns, brow furrowing. "S'not like I _claimed_ you or any—"

 _Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute._

That sounds important.

" _Claimed_ me?" I ask, frowning deeply.

Spike nods, eyeing me cautiously, but doesn't make a move to explain further.

So I prompt him, voice harsh but still quiet. "You wanna share with the class?"

"'S nothin' really," he says, dropping his gaze down to a loose thread in the carpet.

Nothing.

Right.

I narrow my eyes at him even though he isn't looking at me. "Your buddy got _awfully_ upset back there over 'nothing really'."

I'm not in the mood to be lied to.

I can't afford it.

Fancy vamp talk for somethin' that basically amounts to marriage." He sighs, looking down. Spike must hear it in my voice, because a moment later he sighs and looks back up at me.

"'S a ritual, very old. Mostly out of practice now. Too permanent for most vampires." He clears his throat. "Bindin' and all that."

Binding?

"It's a binding ritual?" I ask, more for clarification than lack of hearing.

"In a manner of speakin', yeah." Spike does an awkward half shrug. "If I'd claimed you, you'd be bound to me."

I stare at him, blinking.

He still isn't looking at me.

Bound. To Spike.

As in...bound? Together?

 _Permanently?_

"And…that's _not_ what you did?"

His eyes whip up to mine then, wide as saucers. "Bloody hell, _no_. No." He shakes his head. "I bit you, yeah. Drank from you. That's not enough for a claim though, right? Have to say the magic words."

Vampire bites. Binding rituals.

Magic words.

This whole thing is giving me the wiggins.

"And…there were no words?"

Another shake of his head. "None."

I don't know what it is, the feeling flooding my chest now.

It's either pure, complete relief.

Or bitter disappointment.

But it isn't important.

I'll deal with my mixy feelings when our lives aren't hanging in the balance.

"But they think you claimed me?" I ask, musing out loud, now my turn to look away from him.

The blue of his eyes is just a little too intense for me right now.

"Makes sense," he says thoughtfully. "If I had, well, er...if we'd claimed _each other_ , your lifeline'd be tied to mine."

That makes my eyes shoot up.

" _What_?"

Left that part out before.

Kind of a big part.

A sort of sheepish look passes over his face. "Well, theoretically."

Huge. This is _huge_.

Angelus' words echo in my ears, suddenly making a lot more sense.

 _"_ _Can it be undone?"_

My mind starts to race with this new information. Whether or not Spike claimed me, they, Angelus, Lindsey, think he did. They don't know for sure.

And that means...

"So, t _heoretically_ they wouldn't be able to kill you—"

"So long as they need you alive," he finishes my thought solemnly. "Yeah."

A surge of hope floods my veins. This could be all we need to gain the upper hand.

"Can they prove that you didn't?" I ask hurriedly, urgently. "That we didn't?"

Spike seems to catch on to my train of thought even as I'm asking the question. His eyes are wide when he says, "Dunno." Then the hope in his gaze is clouded. "Have a feelin' that's probably what we're goin' to find out, though."

I stare at the vampire beside me.

My kidnapper. My protector. My...friend?

My lover?

Whatever he was, whatever he is now, as I lay on my back handcuffed in a jet plane that's carrying me toward an evil law firm with most definitely evil, currently indeterminate plans for me, I realize it.

He's my only ally. My only lifeline in this.

And I need him.

I need him with me.

But first, I need to know.

"If I ask you a question, will you be honest with me?"

He blinks, clearly taken aback by the quick shift in subject.

Still, he barely hesitates before replying with a soft, "Yes."

"Did you kill my mother?"

He stares at me hard for a long moment, unblinking. I stare back. There's turmoil in his eyes, swirling pain, and I can feel fear gripping my chest tight.

I don't know what his answer will be.

I don't know what I'll do if he says yes.

Consequently, I don't know exactly what I'll do if he says no, either.

Will I take his word for it?

Can I?

Do I even have a choice?

Finally, after what seems like forever, he opens his mouth to speak. My breath sticks in my throat.

The words are forming, I can see them on his lips…a second before a foot comes flying out of nowhere and smashes into his face.

"Bloody _fuck_ ," he spits out the blood pooling in his mouth and glares up at the offending foot. "Watch the nose, will you?"

I gasp as I'm suddenly pulled to my feet. I feel Angelus' breath on my neck, his arms banding around my waist as he addresses my blonde vampire.

"Sorry Spike," he purrs, "just trying to fix that bump for you."

He chuckles darkly in my ear before shoving me aside, pushing me into the waiting arms of one of the large armed guards from the hotel.

I watch helplessly as the brunette reaches down and grabs hold of Spike by the lapels of his duster, dragging him to his feet roughly.

"Careful mate," Spike says lightly, "You're bruisin' the leather."

"Funny," Angelus says, just as lightly, mockingly, "isn't exactly what I'd planned on bruising."

He uses his grip on Spike's duster to toss him hard against the jet's wall, sending him crashing into a set of cabinet doors. They pop open from the force, spilling their contents onto the ground and all over the blonde vampire.

Angelus doesn't pause, charging forward to haul him up to his feet again, head butting him with an alarming _crack_.

Then he hits him.

"Willie, my boy." Hits him again. "I forgot how much _fun_ you are."

With his hands bound behind his back, Spike has no recourse to fight back.

I can only watch, panic rising in my chest, as Angelus reigns hard blows over Spike's face and torso.

And he's laughing.

It's too much.

"Stop!" I scream.

The voice doesn't even sound like mine.

Angelus tosses a glance over his shoulder at me, a mocking pout crossing his lips. "I don't want to."

From behind me, Lindsey's soft southern accent, "Angelus."

On cue, the big brunette scowls, letting go of Spike, dropping him roughly to the ground. "Well, look who's come to spoil my fun." He turns around, narrows dark eyes on the lawyer behind me. "Again."

Lindsey clears his throat, stepping around the pulled back curtain and around me. "You agreed to the rules," he says calmly, cocking his head to the side. "I'd hate to have to tell the Senior Partners they were wrong about you."

Angelus sneers. "I just bet you would."

The two stare each other down for a long moment, and I wonder for a moment, just a moment, if Angelus is going to break their deal right now. I can practically see the blood lust in his eyes, written all over his face.

Then the moment shatters and he stalks past us in a swirl of hulking black, growling low in the lawyer's ear as he passes by.

There's one more tense moment, then Lindsey turns to me, offers me a saccharine gentleman's smile, then turns to the man now holding me up.

"We need to get them inside," he says quietly, "the doorman will show you where."

He snaps his fingers and before I know what's happening, a sharp stabbing pain is digging hard into the side of my arm.

I cry out, looking over just in time to see the syringe, the filmy looking blue liquid being flushed into my arm.

There's just enough time for me to meet Spike's eyes once more before the world goes black for the second time tonight.

 _He moves to lunge at me again but I'm ready, moving out of the way at last minute, spinning to elbow him in the back of the head._

 _He whirls around to face me, and I catch sight of a sputtering neon sign, neon red letters emblazoning the word "Max's" on the brick wall, casting an eerie shadow over the demonic contours of Spike's brow._

 _I've never noticed that before._

 _He leaps toward me again, but I'm faster. I grab him around the throat, running and shoving him hard into the wall. I have the stake raised, poised to strike._

 _And then I hear it._

 _A soft whimper, a tiny sigh. I whip my head around, a sudden burst of panic coursing through me. I look around the dark alley, desperately seeking out the source of the noise._

 _Spike moves faster than I can react._

 _He leaps at me and knocks the stake out of my hand, landing one fist to my jaw and the other to my stomach._

 _I double over, gasping, and he sweeps my legs out from under me._

 _He has my arms pinned to the ground, straddling my waist with his knees digging into my ribs. I struggle, but it's no use. He's too strong, has too much leverage over me._

 _I stare up into his demonic face as he wraps one long fingered hand around my neck, braces the other underneath my head. I watch the muscles in his neck flex and throb as he tightens his hold and twists._

I sit up with a shout, sweat dripping down my face, the back of my neck.

Wherever I am, it's dark. Not pitch black, but dark enough that it takes me a moment to get my bearings.

My body feels even worse than it did waking up on the plane, muscles weak, limp. I try to raise my hands and they feel like lead, shaking like leaves. But they're no longer cuffed in front of me.

So that's something.

I brace my shaking hands on either side of my head to quiet the buzzing, keep the world from spinning.

Whatever it is they gave me on the plane, it worked.

After a moment the fog starts to life, and I'm able to turn my eyes from side to side, scanning my surroundings. I can't see much of anything. Just vague shapes.

But the tingle shooting down the back of my neck lets me know I'm not alone.

"Spike?" I venture, voice very hoarse, bouncing off the walls and echoing back to me.

I put my hands down on the ground and feel around.

Concrete.

Okay, so the floor is concrete. And it's dark.

A basement?

Still, no answer from Spike. But I know he's here. I can feel him.

Maybe he's asleep?

I think about when I'd last seen him, a heap of black and bleached blonde on the floor, panting, battered and bruised.

 _Maybe he's unconscious._

Slowly, I shift forward and up onto my hands and knees, not trusting my strength to walk. I crawl forward, reaching my hands out in front of me until they brush against the wall.

It's concrete, too.

Definitely a basement room of some kind.

"Spike?" I try again.

There's a rustling noise somewhere off to my left. Then, very faintly, "Right here, pet."

I turn my head in the direction I've heard his voice, and yes, he's there. I can see him now, make out his dark shouldered outline and bleached hair.

But I don't go to him.

We have some unfinished business, and my blood is still buzzing on the heels of another one of my dreams.

I don't trust myself to get too close to him right now.

So I ask, picking up where we left off in the plane, "Did you?"

It comes out quickly, harshly, without preamble or tact. I don't even bother to rephrase the full question, just assume he'll do the wiggy mind reading thing he's gotten so good at and just _know._

He doesn't disappoint me.

His response comes almost immediately, no hesitation at all.

"No."

And now it's my choice. My decision.

Do I believe him? Should I?

I pause for just a moment before responding.

"Spike, "I call his name, hoping he'll hear the unspoken plea, urging him to come to me.

I can hear him shifting against the wall, but he doesn't come closer.

I bite my lip to keep from calling his name again.

And then he sighs, suddenly launching himself up. I watch him from my spot as he walks toward me, unfazed by the dark, until he's crouched down right in front of me.

This close, I have less trouble seeing him.

I can even make out his eyes, still sparkling even without any source of light for reflection.

"Didn't off your mum, luv," he says softly, earnestly. His expression is resigned. "Though if I did, I couldn't be sorry for it."

I keep my eyes trained on his as I say, "I know."

Because I do. He's told me enough times.

She was a slayer. He's a vampire. To expect him to be sorry that the killer of his kind was taken out would be expecting too mu—

"But I could've stopped it."

That, I wasn't expecting.

I stare at him, my eyes searching his, confused by what I see there.

It looks a lot like guilt. But that can't be right.

Unless it isn't guilt over the death of a slayer I'm seeing, but instead, guilt over the death of my mom.

"How?" I ask, my voice very soft in our cavernous surroundings.

Spike shifts forward, placing his weight on his knees in front of me.

"Was there, pet. Saw it happen." He shakes his head, chuckling darkly in a way that's utterly devoid of humor. "Hell, I'd fought your mum just before—"

It hits me with such blinding clarity, all the force of a Mack truck.

The dream.

Spike's punk looking clothes, the spiked hair.

 _"…_ _in the 80s or round a bouts. In New York."_

The stake in my hand.

The strength, the fluid skills in battle that feel so natural. So like me, but not _quite_.

The red nail polish.

"In the alleyway," I murmur, almost more to myself than him.

It's spoken so suddenly, so softly. I watch Spike's eyebrow go up dubiously.

"Yes."

I nod.

"Outside of Max's."

He shifts away from me suddenly, so quickly you'd think I'd burned him, brow furrowed in shock. His eyes are wide as they search mine. When he speaks, his voice is hushed, a little awed.

"You remember?"

It's my turn to shift away from him.

I blink rapidly, stunned. "Remember?"

He nods, still looking at me with that mix of shock and wonder. "You were there, sweet."

I frown.

Of course I was there.

"In my dream?"

And it's Spike's turn to look confused. "What dream?"

We frown at each other for a moment, something majorly lost in translation.

"My dream." I say firmly, breaking the silence. I lean toward him. "The one I've been having. You know," I gesticulate toward him, "the one with the screaming and the punching and the almost stakeage of _you_?"

His eyes go impossibly wide. " _That_ dream? 'S me and your _mum_?"

I don't blame him for looking confused. I've only just figured it out myself.

Except he doesn't look confused.

He looks awed.

Maybe a little horrified.

"What's that mean?" I ask, voice starting to sound panicky. "Your face says it means something."

He sits back on his heels, voice very level. "You're dreamin' about your mum's last battle, pet."

I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

He doesn't.

So I throw my hands up in frustration. "You say that like I should know what it _means_!"

Spike looks chastened as he begins to explain, looking away from me. "You shouldn't be dreamin' about that. Only _slayers_ have dreams about other slayers' final battles…"

He trails off, looking back up at me in a heady, meaningful way.

Oh.

Oh, _no._

No. No. No.

I press my back all the way flat against the cold cement wall, squeezing my eyes shut. Opening them again.

That's impossible. What he's implying...it's _impossible_.

I'm not…

I mean, I _can't_ be…

"But…she's my mom, right?" I say quickly, voice shrill, grasping at straws. "Couldn't there be like…an exception or something? I mean, hey," I gesture to myself with both hands, "I've been pretty much all with the exceptions as it is already."

He doesn't answer me, instead jumping ahead to another train of thought.

"When did it start?"

I blink dumbly. "What?"

He rolls his eyes, jaw ticking.

He's fighting for patience.

"The dream, luv. When did it start?"

I'm having trouble focusing, my head swimming.

 _When did the..._

"Umm, I'm not…I don't know exactly." I shake my head to try and clear it. "Y-you woke me up, remember? The motel–on the Kansas border."

He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He sits like that for a long moment, eyes shut, like he's doing some kind of difficult math problem in his head.

I stare at him, hear thudding.

When he opens his eyes again, a look I haven't seen before passes over his face.

I don't like it.

"A couple days after I bit you."

I rack my brain. Is that right? He bit me that second night, out in the car. The next night was the border town in Colorado, and then…

 _Oh._

"Yeah."

He shifts a little closer to me, intensity rolling off him in waves. He's whispering even though we're clearly the only ones here. "Right bout then you started the healin' bit, yeah?"

I stare at him, swallowing hard.

"Y-yeah."

Spike scrubs a hand down his face, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"That seem like an awfully big coincidence to you?"

Dinosaur big. Colossally big.

 _Ten thousand gallons of coincidence._

But it doesn't make sense.

"What are you saying?" I ask, trying in vain to calm my shaking voice. "That you...biting me...turned me into this?" I gesture vaguely toward my body with my hands, unsure how else to explain everything that's been happening to me. "Gave me those dreams about you and mom?"

He reaches out, lays his hands over mine in an attempt to still their shaking.

"No. I'm just sayin'...there's something big at work here, luv. Somethin' bigger than you, or me." He shakes his head, eyes riveted on mine. "Bigger than we could've thought."

I stare at him, eyes wide, voice soft. "Do you think _they_ know what it is?"

I gesture with a tilt of my chin upwards for emphasis, where I imagine our captors are.

Spike sighs. "They wanted you from the beginning. Me? 'S hard to say." He shrugs, bites down on his bottom lip. "Doubt they were plannin' on me gettin' fang happy, though."

Our eyes meet, and an unspoken understanding passes between us.

The notion that we might be onto something, that we just might have figured something new out...something that Wolfram and Hart might not know yet sparks something in my gut. That same feeling from before in the plane, like we have a shot at gaining the upper hand.

Even if we have no real clue what's happening to me, what's really causing it. If it's my mom's slayer blood, if it's Spike's bite...if it's some bizarro combination of the two.

That doesn't matter.

We might know _something_ they don't.

And the thought sends a wave of determination flooding my veins, igniting my blood.

"Then we need to figure it out," I say softly, setting my jaw as I search his face. "We need to figure it out before they do."


	21. Chapter 20

Across from me, Spike nods.

"We'll do what we can, pet. But these wankers always seem to have a few tricks up their sleeves." He moves to sit beside me, pressing his back into the cool wall. "For all we know, they _wanted_ this to happen."

I whip my head around toward him, eyebrows raised.

" _Wanted_ you to bite me?" I ask, disbelieving.

That doesn't make any sense.

Why would they be in such a panic to figure out what's happened if all along they'd wanted this to happen?

Why get Angelus involved at all?

"Think about it. Back in the hotel, when Angelus said he was going to take what was promised to him? He went for your neck. Stopped when he saw the mark there." He raises his eyebrows. "My mark."

 _My_ mark. The way he says it.

Like it means something.

Spike gives me a poignant look. "That's when the old man lost his temper."

I frown at him.

This doesn't sound like anything new to me. It's pretty much what we discussed on the plane.

"Because he thought you claimed me." I say slowly, reiterating the point I'd believed we've already hashed out.

But Spike shakes his head.

"That's what I thought at first. Only he didn't say claimed, did he? He said _bit_. Asked if I _drank_ from you."

I think about this.

Through the jumbled mess of my brain, I can recall the words. The way the larger vampire had spoken them.

There'd been an emphasis on the word.

 _Drank._

Like that was the important part. Not necessarily the bite itself.

And if it had been a claim they were concerned about, wouldn't it have been the bite that worried them?

So it's...what then? My blood?

A cold wave of fear grips my insides as I look back at Spike.

"You think Wolfram and Hart promised him my _blood_?"

He must hear it in my voice, because a second later he's turned his body toward mine, hands cupping my face. Calloused thumbs stroke my cheeks.

"No, luv, that's not—" he grits his teeth, eyes rolling heavenward— "Bloody hell. I'm just sayin'..." he trails off, blue eyes returning to mine again. His expression softens. "I'm explainin' things all wrong. Look, Angelus and I...we're family."

My brows knit together, confused, momentarily forgetting the fear from a moment ago.

"Family?"

He nods, hands still on my face. "From the same bloodline, pet. Dru, Drusilla?" He searches my eyes, waits for me to acknowledge I've remembered her before continuing. "Angelus is her sire."

 _Whoa._

Color me blindsided.

" _Angelus_ made Drusilla?"

Spike's lips quirk up in a cold sneer.

"But not before drivin' her insane."

 _Oh._

It all snaps into place like a missing puzzle pieces. That haunted look in Spike's eyes. The way he'd spoken about Angelus. About his torture.

Those past experiences, the ones that had filled him with so much fear for me.

They weren't necessarily his at all.

I feel a sharp pang of sorrow for the insane vampiress, but it doesn't last long before I force myself to push those thoughts aside, try to draw the lines of the family tree in my head.

Angelus sired Drusilla.

Drusilla sired Spike.

"Angelus is your _grandfather_?"

Spike winces, dropping his hands from my face. A dark look clouds his features.

"For lack of a better term," he murmurs, "yeah."

I think I've touched a nerve.

"Sorry," I apologize lamely, but quickly push forward. "So, you're...related. What does that have to do with me?"

"I'm gettin' there, yeah?" He focuses his stormy eyes on me. "Angelus and I belong to a very old bloodline, luv. The Order of Aurelius."

 _The Order of Aurelius._

The name strikes a chord, there's something so familiar about it.

But just like with Angelus, I know I've never actually heard it before.

I toy with the idea of asking Spike more questions about it, but decide against it.

I want to get the explainy part.

"Fancy." I say.

Spike smirks. "Descended from the Master himself."

I can't stop the groan from escaping.

The _Master_?

"Lemme guess," I say, letting my head fall against the cement wall. "Wicked old, wicked powerful, out to destroy the world type a guy?"

Spike's eyebrow shoots up, mirroring the corner of his mouth. "You catch on quick."

Just what I need.

Another bad guy to worry about.

"Don't have a choice," I grumble, sitting up, bringing my head off the wall. "Okay. History lesson's over. What's your point?"

"My point is, Angelus and I? We _both_ carry the Aurelian line."

He says it so meaningfully, so expectantly. Like that's all he has to say and I'll just magically get what it is he's telling me.

I raise my eyebrows, gesturing for him to continue.

Spike rolls his eyes, mutters a distinctly British curse. "Wolfram and Hart sought both of us out, pet. Two of us. Aurelians. Hell, even that pissant Lenny has some Aurelian blood in him." He pauses, frowning. "I'm pretty sure." He shakes his head, regaining focus. "What I'm sayin' is, it was only _after_ I bit you that all the craziness started, yeah? Your strength. Your dreams. The healing." He ticks them off on his fingers then pauses, cocks his head to the side. His eyes narrowing knowingly. "And I'm willing to bet other things, too."

My thoughts go immediately to our first fight.

The wild race of my pulse, the humming in my veins. The way my blood had felt like it was on fire.

Burning, boiling, calling out for him. For Spike.

The powerful, primal urge I'd felt to hit him.

Hurt him.

Possess him.

My cheeks flush hot at the memory and I have to look away.

"What are you implying?" I stammer.

"Do you feel like I have power over you, Buffy?"

That brings my head up again, real fast.

"No." I say immediately, hardly, brooking no argument.

Spike stares at me, blinking long lashes.

My chest tightens.

I waver.

"No," I say again, less confident, less sure sounding this time.

The way he's looking at me.

Like I'm the sun, and he's been trapped in an underground cave all his life.

I can feel my resolve melting even as I try my hardest to hold on.

And then he breaks eye contact with me, and the feeling ebbs.

My chest is heaving. I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath.

I stare at Spike, bewildered, horrified, wondering just how much of what happened can be attributed to this theory of his and how much of it is just...Spike.

He thinks there's something making me feel this for him?

"You think your bite started off some freaky reaction in my blood?"

He looks back at me, his eyes gone soft. "Just tossin' out ideas rollin' around in my noggin, luv. Thought we were tryin' to figure this out?" He shrugs. "I know about as much as you do."

I know he's right.

And truthfully, his theory doesn't sound completely implausible to me.

Especially after that little demonstration...whatever happened there.

It makes more sense than any other theory I've managed to come up with, mostly because my brain is still too fuzzy to come up with anything halfway decent.

Still, even if it is true.

Even if there's some freaky slayer kin/master vampire reaction happening in my blood that's gifting me with greater than average strength and a quicker healing timespan, I'll have a real hard time believing that this– between Spike and I– that what I feel for him at this point isn't real.

Especially now that it's not so much with the mixy and a lot more with the—

Probably shouldn't go there.

Not yet.

I sigh loudly, wondering dimly how long they'll keep us down here before they start in on whatever the have planned.

My muscles are still aching, very weak, and the jolt from the cattle prod really did do a number on my neck. With the hard wall up against my back, the cold cement beneath me.

There's no way to get comfortable with how I'm sitting now.

I stretch my legs out in front of me and I let my head drop onto Spike's shoulder.

I feel him stiffen instantly beneath me, but after a moment he relaxes again. The leather duster creaks when he turns slightly, and his lips brush against the crown of my head.

I nuzzle deeper against him, inhaling the leather and cigarette scent that is so supremely _Spike_. Funny how his scent has become so ingrained in my head as being comforting in such a short amount of time.

There's a little niggle in the back of my brain that says there might be a reason for that.

I shove it aside, making room for other niggles to make themselves known.

I start asking Spike questions.

The harmless ones. The ones I've been wondering for a while but haven't bothered to ask.

Things I genuinely want to know.

Things I ask just to keep my mind occupied.

I don't know how much time passes before I run out of the harmless questions, and I'm left with only the big ones.

The potentially life changing ones.

There's still no sign that anyone's going to come fill us in on what's happening.

So I bite the bullet.

"Was it Angelus, then?" I ask, keeping my voice low, half muffled against his shoulder.

There's a brief pause, and then Spike's arm snakes around my waist, tugging me more firmly into his side.

"Was what Angelus, sweet?"

But I can tell he already knows what I'm meaning.

I swallow hard. "Mom."

Spike stiffens again. I wait a moment for him to relax, but he doesn't. I halfway want to lift my head, to get a look at his face, see what it is he's so afraid to let me know.

But then he speaks.

His voice is very soft, lips still pressed into my hair.

"It was Dru."

The answer doesn't surprise me.

Or it...it does and it doesn't at the same time.

Maybe I'd been halfway expecting it?

Maybe I'm relieved.

Whatever the reason, it doesn't hit me as hard as I think it will.

I don't say anything to Spike. Just sit beside him, the side of my body pressing into his, liking the way his arm feels around me.

I wait patiently for him to continue.

"Your dream, luv." His thumb starts to brush little circles against my waist. "Where did it end?"

I twist my head so my lips aren't pressed against the leather anymore. "You were on top of me...I mean, of mom." It's not as hard to say as I expect it to be. Maybe because I know now it wasn't Spike that did it. "You had your hands around her neck."

I feel him nod against me, breath tickling my hair, stirring the strands at my scalp.

His chest rises and falls once, deeply, as he sighs.

"Dru was with me that night," Spike begins, keeping his voice low, raising his head up slightly so it isn't muffled. "She'd come out on the hunt. Normally, I didn't let her do that. Least not when it was just the two of us." His chest rises and falls again. "She was so hard to keep track of, used to take a lot of risks." He pauses, swallowing. "Children were her favorite."

My eyes flutter closed, stomach twisting.

I think of the pang I'd felt for the vampire earlier and regret it.

Unthinking, I wrap my arms tightly around my waist. I've halfway forgotten that his arm is already wrapped around me.

He moves as though to pull it away, but I stop him, laying my left hand on top of his right.

I wait for him to continue with the story.

When he doesn't, I nudge him lightly.

"Go on," I murmur.

I get the distinct feeling from the vampire beside me that he doesn't want to.

There's another long pause.

I'm about to nudge his ribs once more when he finally starts to speak again. His voice is much quieter now. More intense.

I almost have to strain to hear him above my own breathing.

"We were walkin' down the alleyway when I felt her. Your mum." He shifts a little, leaning his head away from me. I hear a soft thud and assume he's leaned it against the wall. "I panicked. Dru wasn't as weak then as she became later on, but she still wasn't _strong_. Not strong enough to take on a Slayer and win." He exhales a long sigh, untangles his arm from around me.

My back feels very cold where his touch had just been.

"So I hid her," Spike continues, "in the shadows of the alley, told her to wait for me."

I lift my head off Spike's shoulder, tilt it back a ways so I can see his face.

I was right.

He has his head leaned back, pressed into the concrete.

His eyes are closed.

"And then you fought?" I ask quietly, prompting him to continue the story.

He nods.

"So, what I saw in my dream…that wasn't the end of the fight?"

"Not, it was." His brow furrows, looking almost pained. "Sort of."

He turns toward me then, lashes fluttering open. His eyes burn into me with sharp intensity, his voice low. "I would've done it, pet. Killed her. I would have done it without a second thought, and not just to keep Dru safe."

I stare at him.

I don't know what to say.

I could tell him that I know that, but the words will only sound hollow.

So instead, I ask "What stopped you?"

He looks at me hard for a moment, searching my eyes with that same wild intensity from a moment before.

It's as though he's studying my face.

He's looking for something.

Maybe some sign from me to continue. Maybe an indication that I want to hear the rest.

Whatever it is, I think he finds it because a moment later he tilts his head back against the wall and lets his eyes fall shut again.

"Earlier, when you brought up the alleyway?" He asks, his voice sounding strange. "Max's? I asked you something."

I frown, thinking back to the beginning of our conversation.

He'd asked me a question?

Yes, he had. He'd asked me a question I hadn't answered. It had confused me.

It had taken a backseat to the other discovery we'd made.

He'd asked me…

 _"_ _You remember?"_

My stomach clenches, a cold flush starting at the base of my neck and spreading to the tips of my toes.

If I _remembered._

I reach out and take his chin in my hand, turning his head to face mine with a little more force than I intend.

The drug they gave me must be wearing off.

I wait for Spike to open his eyes again before I ask him, voice tense, "I was _there_?"

Spike hesitates for just a moment before he nods against my hand.

I let it drop with a thud into his lap.

"Heard the noise first," he says, moving to place his hand over mine. "This…little gasp." He trails the cool tips of his fingers down the back of my hand. "So I stop, look toward the noise." He traces one particularly blue vein. "See this blonde little girl. Just a slip of a thing, standing in the shadows, staring at me with these huge green eyes."

His eyes come up to meet mine, and what I see in them makes my heart pound.

 _I was there._

I search his face with same wide greens eyes he's just mentioned, shaking my head.

"I…I don't remember."

A wry, humorless smile curves his lips. "I'm not surprised," he says, dropping his eyes down to the hand he's cradling in his lap. "Figured you'da blocked it all out. You were so small."

I stare at him, watch him watching me. The synapses in my brain are firing, struggling against the haze to piece together all this new information.

The question I'd asked. The response he's given.

 _"_ _What stopped you?"_

"I stopped you?" I ask, eyes trained with laser focus on his profile.

He glances my way quickly.

Then he sighs, letting go of my hand, bringing it around to cup the back of his neck.

"Caught me off guard, seein' you there. Wasn't expectin'…" He trails off, voice fading out like he's talking to himself. "It was just a second. A half second, maybe. But it was enough for your mum to push me off, make a run for you." He shakes his head, focus far off in the distance. His eyes narrow, like he's seeing it play out in front of him. "Distracted, I think. Probably concerned for you." There's a long pause, then his eyes slowly come back to mine. "Didn't see Dru standing there until it was too late."

Distracted.

Distracted by me.

That's what had gotten her killed.

I blink at Spike, feeling the familiar sting of tears beginning to form, blurring my vision.

Has there ever been a time in my life when my very existence hasn't put someone's life in danger?

And then a surge of anger floods my chest, out of nowhere, making my cheeks burn hot.

I don't know where it comes from.

But it's better than tears.

"Why would she do that?" I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice from shaking. "Why would she bring me out there with her?"

Why would she bring a six year old with her on patrol?

I was a liability.

 _She had to have known that._

Spike immediately moves to cover my hand again with his, but I pull it away before he can.

I don't want comfort.

I want answers.

"Guessin' she didn't make a habit of it, pet." He looks away from me. "She was in a right hurry. Tryin' to get you somewhere, I expect."

The room goes eerily silent after this.

In the half dark, I think I can almost hear noises from above us. Shuffling sounds, something like metal scraping over tile.

I try and picture what could be above us, what kind of facility they have us in.

Something about it feels like a lab. It's cold. Clinical.

Reminds me of the room I used to work in with Dad.

And it certainly doesn't feel like any law firm I've ever been in.

Spike and I sit next to each other for a while in a weird, almost companionable silence.

Our backs against the wall, not touching one another.

When I ask my next question, I think it takes both of us a little by surprise.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

I expect to feel Spike flinch away from me.

Stiffen beside me.

He doesn't.

He doesn't respond right away, either.

We turn our heads to face one another at almost the exact same time.

"Honestly?" His voice is rough, gravelly. "I don't know."

I guess that's as good an explanation as any.

"Probably would've," Spike continues before I can say anything, still looking me straight in the eye. "Or I would've let Dru, if there'd been more time."

He's being excruciatingly honest.

I kind of wish he'd stop.

But instead of asking him too, I prompt him again.

"More time?" .

Spike turns away again, bends his knees up to prop his forearms over them.

"Mum's sorry excuse for a Watcher showed up in the alley maybe a minute after Dru—" He stops abruptly, clearing his throat.

I've noticed that he hasn't said the words.

Not explicitly.

He's hemmed and hawed around it, how Drusilla killed my mom, but he's never come right out and said it.

I don't know whether I'm grateful or frustrated.

Maybe a little insulted.

Does he honestly think that _now's_ the time to be delicate with me?

"And you and Drusilla," I say her full name, tasting it on my tongue, pulling my knees up and mimicking his pose. "You just let her Watcher go?"

Spike shifts his eyes over to mine, then back out front.

It reminds me of all the conversations we've had in the car.

"Didn't have a chance to do anythin' but." He scoffs, smirking just a little. "Ninny grabbed you up and ran for the hills. Didn't even take the body." He looks at me again. "Didn't give any of it much thought after that. Slayer was dead. Dru and I left town a few weeks later."

I can practically hear the wheels in his head turning as he looks at me, cocking his head to the side. "Certainly never bloody thought I'd be seein' you again."

I turn my body toward his, leaning the side of my face into the cool concrete.

The flush in my cheeks that's been steady for the last little while fades the tiniest bit.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He answers me with a sardonic smirk, raising one eyebrow.

I sigh, letting my eyes fall shut.

My brain is buzzing, but my body's so tired.

"Would've been nice to know that I was there when my mother was murdered."

It comes out mumbled but harsh, surprisingly childish.

"I agree," Spike murmurs back. "Partly why I assumed your dad would tell you, yeah?"

I think back to that night in the car. Spike laughing, completely shocked that I'd never been told a thing about my past.

About vampires. About mom.

About who or what it is I really am.

I exhale a long sigh through pursed lips.

There are a lot of things I'm thinking that Dad should have told me.

I can't help but think I might not be in this situation in the first place if I'd known even just half of what I know now a week ago.

Even if it was all to protect me.

A lot of good that did.

I open my eyes suddenly as the thought occurs to me.

"Spike," I say, bringing his attention back to me as I place my hand on the wall by my head and push myself into an upright position. "You said you knew it when you'd found me." I lean a little closer to him. "Is that one of those freaky vampire things?"

He smirks, nods, lays a finger on the tip of his nose.

Then he chuckles.

"Course, lot of good that did me in the end."

Right, because… "You said my dad changed it? My…" I wrinkle my nose up, "scent."

Spike nods absently, looking at me through long, dark lashes. "Cloaked it, yeah. Made it a little different every day."

That's it.

The names of all those chemicals. Chemical compounds I'd never heard of.

Dad had said they were new, important. They were "top secret".

That's what we'd been doing in the lab.

All those explosions.

They weren't explosions of chemical compounds at all, but _spells_.

Spells designed to shield me.

Specifically, to shield my _scent._

My eyes whip back to Spike's when he says it.

"Have to think he knew what he was protectin' you from." His eyes meet mine, widening a little at the expression on my face. "What?"

A small smile plays over my lips.

"You did that mind reading thing again."

 _Maybe not so wiggy after all._

Spike shifts, angling his body toward mine so we're leaning slightly into each other.

"Thinkin' it's not a coincidence that these blighters sent vampires after you?"

 _Not just any vampires._

"Aurelian vampires," I remind him, voice dropping down to a low murmur.

The Order of Aurelius.

Spike. Angelus.

 _Drusilla._

The vampire who killed my mother.

Wolfram and Hart sent the same line of vampires after me as the one who took out my mother.

They promised one a gem that gives immortality.

They promised the other my blood.

"I wonder if that means anything," I muse out loud.

But something tells me it might mean everything.


	22. Chapter 21 pt 1

"Why don't you think they've come to get us yet?"

We're no longer whispering, and my voice sounds hollow, too loud in the cavernous basement room.

Beside me, Spike shifts, exhales a slow sigh.

"I dunno, Buffy." He glances my way. "You in a hurry to get with the torturin'?"

I frown at him.

"No, I—" I pause, considering what he's said. My voice drops to a whisper again. "You really think that's what they have planned?"

Spike shakes his head. In the dim light, I can see his jaw clenching.

"No bleeding clue what to expect from these sods anymore."

I bite down on my lip, thinking about this. He's got a point.

 _Still._

"You don't think it's weird?" I ask, wrapping my arms around my knees and tugging them into my chest.

Spike raises an eyebrow in question, inclining his head toward me.

"You know," I gesture absently with one hand, "Go to all this trouble to find me, to get me here. Finally get me here…then leave me for hours in some basement?"

Spike doesn't answer me.

Instead, he reaches out and wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me into his side again.

"Why don't you try and rest, pet." He puts his other hand in my hair and tilts my head down against his shoulder. "Have to be knackered."

I shake my head, pressing back against his hand, keeping my head up right.

I let his arm stayed curled around me.

"Kind of all sleeped-out," I murmur, "With the giant bug zapper, and the bluey liquid injection."

It isn't the whole truth.

In all honestly, sleep would probably be best for my body right now. But the idea of letting my guard down that much, now that we're here. It doesn't sit right.

"'S exactly why you _should_ sleep," he mumbles.

I shake my head.

"I think I'm more hungry than tired, anyway."

Spike nods, a small, appreciative smile quirking his lips.

My eyes go wide as I stare into his face.

When was the last time he'd fed? It couldn't have been before Cleveland.

Maybe before Columbus?

I can't remember.

He hasn't really talked to me much about it since the night outside the gas station in Kansas.

I take a moment to take in his appearance. Really look at him, as best I can in the dark.

His cheekbones are more prominent than usual, through the bruising on his face I can see circles starting to form beneath his eyes. His lips are cracked.

It takes me only a moment to put two and two together. The bruises, the welts on his neck, the cut above his eye. They're not healing.

He's not healing because he hasn't fed in at least three days, possibly more.

And I've been so caught up in all my own thoughts I haven't even noticed.

And he's just been sitting here with me, all this time, not saying a word about it.

"Spike," I murmur, reaching out to put my hand against his cheek. His left, the one with the worst of the bruising. He winces, so I back off my pressure just slightly but don't remove my hand.

"You need blood, don't you?" My eyes are focused on my hand, on my thumb, as I ghost it over the swollen welt just below his eye. "For this to start healing."

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.

I can see it in his eyes, what he needs. The hunger he's trying to bury, trying desperately to control.

"I'm fine, pet." He brings his hand up, pulls mine gently away from his face. "It'll heal, blood or no."

I search his face.

"But it'll heal faster with blood, won't it?"

I don't know that for sure, but it's the only thing that makes sense.

The resigned look on his face tells me I'm probably right.

Spike takes my hand and lays it on his knee, covers it with his own.

Had he been hoping I wouldn't notice?

I act on the decision before my brain even has the chance to realize I've made it. I pull my hand off his knee, out from under his, and flip it so my forearm and palm are facing up. Without a word, I extend it out in front of me, level with the bottom of Spike's chin.

He drops his gaze down to my arm, looks at it hard for a moment, then turns his eyes slowly on mine.

"No." His voice is low, dangerous.

I drop my voice down to match his. "Spike—"

His eyes flash. "I said _no_."

The moment is so familiar.

It's the same exchange of words we'd had all those nights ago, back in the first diner.

The first time I'd begged him to drink from me, instead of killing more innocent people.

It feels entirely different this time.

I look at him, eyes searching his. "You _need_ it."

In response, Spike puts his hand on my arm and pushes it away.

I glare at him, narrowing my eyes. "Why are you being so stubborn?"

"Bloody hell, Buffy," Spike growls low in his throat, turning his body to face mine. "I've already told you—"

"That you won't drink from me." I cut him off, raising my eyebrows at him. "You see another option?"

He narrows his eyes.

My whole body's starting to hum in frustration. I can feel the heat rising, spreading up my neck and into my cheeks.

"And what if this is what they wanted, pet?" He shifts his eyes up to the ceiling on the word "they", indicating the people above us. "What if drinking from you _did_ start something?"

I grit my teeth.

"Then it's already _been_ started," I hiss, "and drinking from me now won't change anything."

Spike fixes me with a hard glare, jaw muscles ticking. Neither of us moves for a long moment. We sit stock still, staring each other down, both of our chests heaving.

"Do you see another option?" I ask again angrily.

He doesn't respond. Just glowers at me.

I extend my arm back out in front of him.

He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine, but he doesn't shove me away this time.

Finally, his expression softens. His eyes are still wild, but it's not anger I see there.

"No," he says, gently placing his hand on my arm to lower it. "It's too dangerous, luv."

I drop my eyes down to where his long fingers are still wrapped around my forearm.

"It's too dangerous not to."

Spike gives a little half scoff, half chuckle. "How you figure?"

It's a valid question.

What I'm really thinking is how worried I am for him. The fact that he isn't healing, that he's probably even weaker than I thought. If he doesn't get some blood in his system, I don't know if he'll survive another round with Angelus.

Or any other form of physical torture they might throw at us.

But I don't tell him that.

"I can't have you at half strength," I say, bringing my eyes back up to his. "If we stand any shot at getting out of here." My lips twist in a wry smile. "I might be all stronger than your average bear, but I doubt I can take them all myself."

Spike smirks at me. "Worried you'll have to carry me in a fight, are you?"

I nod.

"Dead weight." I pause, wrinkling my nose. "Literally."

His smirk falls the slightest bit as he looks at me, that same bone searing, mind numbing look from earlier. Gaze heavy and awed all at once.

Then he looks down, eyes landing on his hand still gripping my forearm.

"I really will be okay without it, luv," he murmurs, hand gliding slowly down toward my wrist.

I turn my eyes away from his face, down to his hand.

"I need you better than okay," I whisper, voice coming out breathy.

Spike pauses when his hand reaches my pulse point, presses two cool fingers there. I can feel it throbbing, beating a steady thrum against his touch even as I feel my heartbeat quicken in my chest.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

Relief suffuses my veins, unclenching the knot in my stomach I hadn't known had wound there.

My eyes come back up to find his. How different he looks to me now, sitting beside me in our dark basement prison. Asking me for permission.

My throat's run dry, so instead of telling him how sure I am, I only nod.

It's enough.

I watch as Spike turns away from me, gently lifts my arm back up. He holds it in both hands now, thumbs pressing into the tender skin just below the cluster of blue veins on my wrist.

His eyes flutter closed, nostrils flaring.

I let out a soft, involuntary gasp when his bones suddenly shift, his demon emerging. My entire body tenses when he leans down, gleaming fangs flashing in the darkness. I realize how much I'm trusting him with.

And I'm nervous.

Not afraid. I'm not afraid of Spike. If he hurts me, it won't be because he means to.

But I would be stupid to not be a little nervous.

And I know he can sense it. He can hear it in my heart beat, probably smell it on me. So when Spike hesitates, the tips of his incisors just barely grazing my skin, I know what he's thinking.

I put my hand at the base of his neck and press down. His fangs slice through the tender flesh just below my wrist.

It hurts. There's no two ways around it.

But after a moment the pain begins to fade, and his cool lips close around the bite with the softest moan. My eyes flutter closed as he begins to suck, taking in rhythmic pulls of my blood in time with my pulse. I gasp when I feel his tongue, alternating between moving in slow, soothing circles around the skin between his teeth and flicking upward, drawing more of my blood into his mouth.

He moans against me again, and I whimper, threading my fingers into the platinum curls at the nape of his neck.

It's so different from the first time.

Even with the pain, there are unmistakable waves of pleasure, too. They radiate through me, starting where his fangs penetrate my flesh and spreading up, through my chest. Down my abdomen, straight to my center.

My head is light.

Spike deepens the bite, exerting just a little extra pressure before suddenly lifting his head and releasing me completely. With a shuddering sigh, my muscles go limp and I drop my forehead against his shoulder.

It's strange. I thought I'd feel cold now, the blood taken from me now swirling in Spike's long dead veins.

I don't.

All I feel is heat.

Spike's still holding my arm, cradling it in his hands, laving the twin puncture wounds there with his tongue.

I open my eyes and close them again, breathing surprisingly ragged for not having exerted any effort.

"Better?" I manage to ask after a moment.

I feel him chuckle beneath me, his shoulders shaking a little. He releases my arm and sets it down in his lap.

"Good as new," he murmurs.

Neither of us moves for a little while. I don't think I could even if I wanted to.

"How about now?" He asks after bit. I lift my forehead off his shoulder, blinking at him with bleary eyes. He smiles at me. "Will you sleep now?"

I shake my head no, but I don't think it's the truth. My eyelids feel heavy.

I don't know how much of it might be blood loss and how much might be actual fatigue.

But I don't want to sleep. Not here.

Spike sighs, wraps both arms around me and tugs me all the way into his lap. I think about protesting for maybe a second before the feel of him beneath me, his arms and the leather duster wrapping around me like a cocoon, make the thought seem silly.

I melt into him.

"Sleep," he tells me, leaning back against the wall, taking me with him. "I'll be here."

I open my mouth to protest, however weakly, but Spike silences me with a gentle kiss, the softest pressure of his lips against mine.

It's the first time we've kissed since the incident at the hotel.

It's quick. Sweet, almost chaste.

Domestic.

The kind of kiss you give when you leave for work in the morning. Like you could do it every day for the rest of your life.

And I let myself think it. Just this once. Because in the moment, it's what this feels like.

It's the last thought I have before I drift to sleep.

 _I could love him._

When I wake up, it's to the sound of metal scraping over concrete.

I jolt upright in Spike's arms, hands automatically coming up to shield my eyes from the blinding light spilling in through the open door. I don't know exactly how long I've been asleep for, but it's been long enough for me to feel majorly disoriented.

Spike sees it before I do. His arms subtly tighten around me, growling low in his throat.

I blink, squinting toward the doorway, using my hand as a shield. I'm surprised to see a lone figure standing there, silhouetted against the hall light. It isn't how I pictured this part happening. I thought, when they did come for us, it'd be all with the fanfare and the weapons and the masked guards.

Not one person.

I can't make out his face, or anything else about them other than they stand at an average height, and I think I can see the outline of their suit.

"Now, this won't do at all."

The voice that belongs to the man in the suit is light, friendly. Not at all what I've been expecting.

"If you two will just shield your eyes for a moment, I'll flip on the lights."

My brow furrows, still blinking dumbly.

 _Lights?_

And then there's a flash, and a distinct clicking sound. Three sets of inset fluorescent ceiling lights shudder to life above us, casting the room in a sickly bright glow.

I grimace, hands flying up to cover my eyes. Behind me, Spike hisses.

"Sorry about that," the friendly voice is saying, closer now, "I thought someone would have shown you where the lights were."

Slowly, I pull my hands away, blinking to adjust to the light. I look around the room.

Upon first glance, I'm a little shocked.

The walls and floors are concrete. I'd been right about that. And the doorway our new friend has just walked through is a large one, probably five feet across and nearly eight feet high. The door is metal, but I can't tell what kind.

And the room itself is huge. Bigger than I originally thought.

But the real kicker is what else is _in_ the room. What's supposedly been in the room with us this whole time.

There's a bed.

And not just a tiny cot, either. A big, king size looking bed, with a big fluffy comforter and pillows all in various shades of grey and black. Flanking it on either side are two nightstands, complete with two matching lamps. In front of this, there's a pseudo seating area. A set of big leather chairs and what looks like a coffee table, a stack of magazines and books laid on top of it.

The effect of it all would be almost cozy if it weren't for being completely wig inducing. The linens and the leather, it's all so out of place with the austere surroundings. The thick cement walls, the large metal door.

The fact that this room is obviously meant for use as a containment space.

"You two chose the less comfortable half of the room, I'm afraid."

My eyes come to land on the suited man standing in front of us. I'd almost forgotten about him. I look at him now, under the glaring artificial lights, taking in his appearance. He's older, probably in his mid-fifties, with greying hair and what I'm assuming is a deceptively friendly face.

It's his eyes that have me wigging, though. They're fixated on me, deceptively kind.

It's the same thing as before. Twice now. Once with Angelus, and again with the Order. Something horribly, achingly familiar about him...but at the same time, _not_.

"What the bloody hell is all this?" Spike asks in my ear, voice low, almost under his breath.

The man's eyes move from mine to just over my shoulder, where I imagine Spike's are, head tilted slightly to the side. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

Spike shifts me out of his lap and pushes himself to his feet. He's a little unsteady, but it's nothing compared to what I remember on the plane.

I'm hoping that means my blood is doing its job.

" _This_ ," He says, gesturing with a hard point toward the arrayed furniture. "What the bloody hell is this?"

The man's eyes light with understanding, and he smiles.

"Ah, yes," he says, nodding. "This is Elizabeth's room."

It takes a minute for it to sink in. He's talking about me. I'm Elizabeth to him.

I push myself to my feet, too, looking around the cavernous space.

A vault, I realize. That's what it reminds me of. This room feels like the bank vaults you see in all those old heist movies, the kind with the five foot thick walls and the steel enforced concrete.

Meant to keep people out.

Or keep something in.

I place my hand on the wall beside me, press against it. My stomach churns.

 _This was created for me?_

"You'll have to forgive us, Spike." The man continues, stepping closer to us, hands clasped casually behind his back. "We weren't exactly prepared to have another guest. We assumed it'd be alright if we had you share?"

I narrow my eyes.

It's funny, the feeling boiling up in my chest now.

After spending so much of my time over the past week feeling so afraid of this. Afraid of Wolfram and Hart. Of what they want from me, what they planned to do with me.

After everything, standing here now in this overgrown prison cell, staring back at the man I assume has a lot to do with me ending up here, I don't feel afraid.

Not for myself, anyway.

I kind of just feel angry.

"So we're your _guests_ now?" I snap, waiting for his heebie jeebie eyes to turn toward me again.

The man frowns at me. He almost looks insulted.

"Of course," he says matter of factly, "what else would you be?"

I glare at him.

"Considering the fact that you had someone hunt me down, dragged me here against my will and then dumped me in a basement with concrete walls and a padlocked door, I'd say I'm feeling a whole lot like a prisoner." I put my hands on my hips, turning toward my vampire. "How about you, Spike? Is that how you're feeling?"

He smirks at me, folding his arms over his chest. "Sounds about right."

Both our eyes fly back to the lawyer when he claps his hands together happily.

"It's so nice to see you two supporting each other," the man beams, seeming genuinely pleased. "But I can assure you, you aren't our prisoners."

It doesn't seem right.

 _"_ _For all we know, they wanted this to happen."_

"Who are you?" I ask, grateful at how steady my voice comes out.

The man balks, eyes going wide.

"Did I forget to introduce myself?" He shakes his head, berating himself. "I'm sorry about that. We're just so excited you're finally here." He steps toward me, extending his hand. "Holland. Head of Special Projects at Wolfram and Hart."

I keep my eyes narrowed, locked on his, refusing to acknowledge his outstretched hand.

This is the face that Wolfram and Hart wants to show me. This is the face of the evil law firm I've been running from. This friendly older gentleman that could be my father, my grandfather.

And all the charm and false innocence of a coiled snake waiting to strike.

"Special Projects?" I ask, waiting for him to retract his hand.

He finally does, but the saccharine smile never leaves his face. "That's right."

I cast a glance at Spike, who's looking at our new pal Holland like he trusts him about as much as I do. Also, a little bit like he wants to rip his throat out.

I'm not sure I'd stop him.

"And since you're here," I say instead, turning my eyes back to the lawyer. "I assume I fall into that category."

"You most certainly do," he says knowingly, then he turns around abruptly and starts heading back to the door. "Now, Elizabeth if you'll just follow me—"

"It's Buffy," I say, not moving from my spot beside Spike.

Holland pauses, slowly turning around to face me again. "What was that?"

"My name," I say, drawing each word out slowly, "it's Buffy. And I'm not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what I'm doing here."

I'm both surprised and pleased by the authority in my voice.

Holland is fighting to keep his pleasant smile firmly in place. I can see the expression is strained, his jaw ticking just slightly beneath the calm exterior.

"I'd be happy to explain," he says the words slowly, gestures toward the door, "If you'll just come with me."

I don't want to leave.

I don't like the idea of going anywhere with this guy alone, and I especially hate the idea of leaving Spike here.

What if they send Angelus back in?

What if he tries to finish what he started?

"Why can't you explain here?" I challenge, still not making a move to follow him. Beside me, my vampire is practically vibrating with tension. I can feel it throbbing, pulsating from where our fingers almost touch.

Holland turns his gaze toward Spike, still standing beside me, and narrows his eyes.

"I'm afraid Spike is strictly on a need to know basis." He cocks his head to the side, eyes twinkling with something that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. "This, he doesn't need to know."

I'm about to open my mouth in protest, but Spike beats me to it.

"Oi!" He shouts, stepping forward, angling his body in front of mine. "It's lookin' to me like I'm pretty well in the middle of all this, yeah? Maybe my _basis_ should be reconsidered."

"Maybe it should be," Holland agrees, but only halfheartedly. "That isn't my decision to make. I'm sorry."

He doesn't look sorry about it at all.

"Now, _Buffy_ ," he says my name with derision, like it's the silliest thing he's ever heard, "I'll be happy to give you whatever answers I can." His eyes turn back to me. "But I'm afraid we'll have to do it privately."

I falter, irrevocably torn between my desire to finally be given some answers and by concern over the vampire standing in front of me.

I reach up and put my hand on Spike's shoulder, turning him around to face me. It's the first time I've gotten a good, hard look at his face since the lights came on.

It's better. The bruising and swelling along his cheeks and neck has gone down considerably. His face has color, looks less gaunt, and his eyes are bright. He doesn't look like he's about to keel over at any second.

I reach up and trace the most prominent bruise, the one beneath his left eye, with the pads of my fingers.

Spike pulls my hand away like he did before, but this time he brings it to his lips. They're smooth and soft under my fingertips, not dry and cracked like they were earlier.

I don't have to ask the question before he answers me, murmuring the words into my skin. "It's alright, luv." He presses another almost chaste kiss to my fingers and lowers my hand. "I'll be fine."

Hearing him say it makes me feel a little better. But still, I don't want to go.

"No one can get in here but me, I assure you." Holland says, jarring both Spike and I.

I'd almost forgotten him again.

I turn my eyes to him, and he smiles a wide, unconvincing smile. "Spike will be just fine."

I stare at the lawyer for a long moment.

I don't trust him. I have absolutely zero reason to. For all I know, he could lead me out of this room and into a separate holding cell. He could have his masked cronies come in and stake Spike as soon as I walk out the door.

Or, Holland could mean what he says. Spike could be just fine. He could give me the answers I've been wanting, then bring me right back here.

To what end, I still don't know.

But the promise might be worth the risk.

I look back at Spike, and he nods at me, gesturing with his head toward Holland and the open door. Impulsively, my left hand shoots out to my cup my right wrist, fingers ghosting over the already fading puncture wounds there.

"Fine." I turn back toward him. "But I want to see you lock the door behind us."

He nods, smiling that freaky, too nice smile. "Of course."

I'm almost all the way to the big metal door frame when I suddenly whip around, dash back to Spike and press my lips to his. The same chaste, domestic kiss he gave me before.

I don't know why I do it.

I just feel like I need to.

I pull away from him with a little smacking sound, searching his slightly shocked eyes with mine.

"I'll be back," I whisper, then turn around and walk swiftly through the door, past Holland, into the brightly lit hallway.

It's not much different out here than it was inside the room. The flooring is a shiny, reflective cement, the walls an industrial looking stucco.

So far, the whole place has had a decidedly un-lawfirmy feel to it.

Which, really, shouldn't be so surprising.

I listen for the scraping of metal on cement before I turn back around. I watch Holland type something into a keypad, and the door makes a groaning, clicking sound.

"Right this way," Holland says, smiling at me and starting down the hall. I cast one last glance at the wide metal door and, steeling myself, fall into step behind him.

He leads me down the long hallway for what feels like ages. It feels like it stretches forever, taking us several long minutes until we finally reach a set of double doors with a big red exit sign above them. These lead out into an industrial staircase, the walls back to the same cold concrete as my "room". But the lights here are different. They have a faintly reddish tint, casting the already dim stairwell in an eerie glow.

I follow Holland wordlessly up three flights of concrete steps, glancing surreptitiously from side to side as we go. This whole place gives me the creeps.

Everything feels cold.

When we stop at the next landing and exit through another set of double doors, I pause. We're standing in another brightly lit hallway, but this one is carpeted. And very short. The walls are high, no longer concrete, but an interesting patterned wall paper with ornate crown molding capping the tops. At the end of the short hallway stands a single elevator.

There still aren't any windows.

So far, there's been nothing but artificial light in this building, but we can't be in the basement anymore. Not after walking up three flights of stairs.

I stop walking altogether, frowning. "What is this place?"

Holland presses the up button on the elevator and turns to look at me. His face is impassive.

"Just a property of Wolfram and Hart," he answers casually, "one of many."

The elevator doors open with a ding, and he steps in. I follow him, carefully keeping my distance. The doors slide closed almost immediately behind me.

"I got that part," I tell him, watching him warily as he presses an unmarked button on the elevator's control panel. "But what _is_ it?"

Holland clasps his hands together in front of his waist, rocking back slightly on his heels. "Its use varies. It can be whatever it's needed to be."

I grit my teeth.

"This crypto boy routine is getting old."

Holland doesn't respond to me. Just steps out of the elevator without another word and begins moving quickly down the corridor. I hesitate for a half second before I scramble after him.

"Hey," I shout, catching up to him. "You promised me answers."

I reach out and grab his arm before I can stop myself. He visibly winces, casting a pained glance down to where my fingers are wrapped around his upper arm. I loosen my grip instantly, letting him go with enough force that he stumbles and slams into the wall.

I blink at him, stunned.

It's the first time I've seen any evidence of my strength, its effect, on someone other than Spike or Angelus.

It's kind of a heady feeling, both powerful and a little scary at the same time.

Holland rights himself, smoothing out his jacket sleeve where my grip has rumpled it. "And you'll get them."

My hands curl reflexively into fists at my sides. "When?"

He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, Buffy, as long as you're willing to cooperate."

I frown at him, narrowing my eyes. "Cooperate?"

"Yes," he says, turning away from me and walking a little further down the hallway. He stops after a few feet, outside a pair of wooden double doors. "We'd hoped this could be a mutually beneficial relationship."

The words sound strange to me. After the time spent fearing them, fearing the absolute worst. Cooperate. Mutually beneficial. Relationship.

All business.

It's all so much worse than if they just called this what it is.

 _Hostile takeover._

I have no delusions about this. Whatever it is they want from me, whatever it is they think I can offer them, they'll be taking it by force.

I take the few steps I need to in order to come up in front of him, my heart starting to thud loudly in my chest.

"Why would I help you?" I ask, voice low.

Holland's eyes flash, the friendliness of his smile belied by the wicked gleam there.

"We can be very persuasive."

My blood runs cold.

He pushes the doors open and steps inside.

My eyes land immediately on the figure in the center of the room. Flanked on either side by two armed men, body slumped low in the leather chair.

My breath catches.

Despite the bruising, the swollen features, I'd recognize him anywhere.

I gasp, the word coming out breathless on a tiny puff of air.

"Dad?"


	23. Chapter 21 pt 2

I'm across the room before anyone can say another word, launching myself toward my dad. I half expect one of the armed men to try and stop me, but they don't.

I drop to my knees in front of the chair.

"Dad," I say again, a little louder this time. Hurried, urgent. I put my hands on his shoulders and shake him gently, trying to get him to focus on me. "Dad, look at me."

His eyes are closed, the left one swollen shut. When I shake him again, his head lolls to the side.

"Dad." I put my hands on his face, bending my head down to try and see better. His lashes flutter, and he groans, but still doesn't open his eyes. He's so thin. He looks ragged, and it isn't just the bruising on his face.

Hot, stinging tears flood my eyes. I can't stop them.

This wasn't supposed to happen. It had been one of the reasons I'd decided to stay with Spike in first place, decided initially to let him bring me here. My dad was supposed to be safe.

They weren't supposed to have found him.

"Dad," I try again, feeling my voice thicken. His lashes flutter. Another groan. But he doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes.

I whip my head around, blurry eyes narrowed on Holland. "What did you do to him?"

He's come into the room, shut the double doors behind him. The look on his face is casual as he clasps his hands together.

"Your father will be fine," he says impassively. I can hear the rest of the sentence, the threat, in my head even as he leaves it open ended.

If you cooperate.

I stand up, turning my body to face him. My hands curl into fists.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing," he insists. I raise an eyebrow, jaw ticking. He reneges. "Just a small sedative, to keep him comfortable."

My stomach twists.

"Why does he need to be kept comfortable?" I ask between clenched teeth, knowing the answer, dreading it. Needing to hear it just the same.

Holland doesn't answer for a moment. He walks further into the room, coming to a stop in front of a large mahogany desk at the center of the room.

"You'll find that I'm not much for torture, Buffy. I don't like it. It's...messy. Unfortunately, the Senior Partners feel a bit differently. They felt your father owed us a debt."

It's like a punch to the gut.

I know he isn't in good shape. It's easy enough to see. But if they thought he needed a sedative until the pain wears off?

And a debt? What kind of debt could my dad possibly owe them?

Holland presses a button on the edge of his desk and holds it down. When a female voice picks up on the other end, he casually asks her to send Lindsey in.

I drop back down to my knees, running shaking hands over my dad's inert form. I don't know what it is I'm looking for. More bruises. A broken bone.

I turn my head around when I hear the double doors open. Lindsey enters, rolling a wheel chair along with him.

I stand up immediately, whirling around, blocking his path to my dad.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, glowering at him.

Lindsey glances back toward Holland, looking uncomfortable. When he receives an encouraging nod from the older man, he turns to me again.

"I'm taking your father back to his room to rest."

No. No way.

If they think I'll let them take my Dad out of my sight, they have another think coming.

I square my shoulders.

"You're not taking him anywhere." I whip my eyes to Holland's, cheeks flaming angrily. "He stays with me."

Holland laughs. Laughs, like what I've said is the funniest joke he's ever heard.

My eyes blaze.

"Oh, Buffy," he says, chortling breathlessly, "I can't tell you how much I'm loving this fire of yours. But you aren't calling the shots here."

He waves a hand at Lindsey, indicating for him to proceed. He hesitates another moment before he tries to push the wheelchair around me once again, but I step to the side and block him.

My eyes are still on the older man's face. "Did you not hear me?"

Holland sighs like he's very tired, the smile dropping instantly from his face. He tosses an exasperated look my way, then over my shoulder. Gives a curt nod.

I hear the sharp, crackling pop just as the big hand lands on my shoulder.

The reaction is instantaneous. I have no time to think about what it is I'm doing before I'm already moving. It happens all at once. In a blind rage, I whirl around, slap the sparking cattle prod out of the masked guard's grip and wrap my hand around his throat. I squeeze, hard, narrowing my eyes.

And then the rage dims an instant later, and I feel like I come back to myself.

I stare at the man's face, only seeing his wide, dark eyes. I have a feeling my expression is as shocked as his is. He starts to sputter under my grip and I immediately let him go, stepping backward. He stares at me, gasping and coughing, his hand flying up to his neck.

I look down at my hand.

The pulse point on my right wrist is throbbing.

From behind me, Holland claps. Once, twice, almost mockingly. When I turn around I see the same bright, almost malevolently gleeful look on his face as I saw earlier.

"It's really remarkable," he says, eyeing me with undisguised interest. I blink at him, hands shaking a little.

Lindsey pushes the wheelchair forward again, and I'm still a little dazed, still staring at my hand as the remaining masked man helps lift my father's unconscious body into it. It's only after they begin rolling it back toward the door that I find my voice, shaking my head to clear the haze.

"Where are you taking him?" I ask, stepping forward.

I notice the guard winces away from me.

"To rest," Holland replies coolly, motioning for the guard to keep pushing the chair forward. "We only wanted to show you that your father is here, and that he's fine."

Fine.

Because being unconscious and battered is fine

"You mean you wanted to show me what you've done to him," I counter, feeling an odd sense of helplessness as I watch the guard and the wheelchair disappear, Lindsey just behind them, closing the double doors as they go.

"Why don't you have a seat, and we can discuss everything?"

I turn back to Holland, see him leaning too casually on the top of his desk. He gestures to the chair situated in front of him. I drop my gaze down to it, back to the closed doors, then finally up to Holland's.

"I'll stand."

He smiles that wiggy, too bright smile at me. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?"

I answer him with two raised eyebrows, lips forming a thin line.

"Fine, fine." He holds both hands up in mock surrender, then fixes me with an intense stare. "First thing's first." He folds his arms over his chest. "Your father sought us out, Buffy. Not the other way around."

I blink.

"What?"

Holland nods, expression a little smug. "He came to us, looking for you."

I take a small step closer to him, crossing my own arms over my chest. Unconsciously, I press my still throbbing wrist hard into my side.

"He knew you were behind this."

Spike had hinted as much. It's different now, though. Now that I'm standing in a room with someone who can give me real answers. Which, he's promised me.

I just have to hope these lawyers aren't as deceitful and manipulative as their non-evil counterparts.

Across from me, Holland chuckles.

"Of course he did, Buffy." He unfolds his arms, places his hands down on either side of him on the desk's edge. "Why don't we start from the beginning?"

Of course he did. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"I think that's a good idea," I say, shifting from one foot to the other. I'm trying for cool confidence, but inside my mind is reeling.

"Your father used to work for us. Wolfram and Hart. Did you know that?"

He asks it like he doesn't already know the answer.

So I answer him. "No."

I had my suspicions. It was always a thought I'd harbored in the back of mind. The way Spike had said that Dad knew better than to get involved with Wolfram and Hart.

It makes sense.

"Part of the Special Projects team, even." He cocks his head to the side. "Of course, back then he was going by a different name. Henry Manners."

This much isn't news to me. The name, anyway.

I frown, brows drawing together.

If Dad worked for them..."He was a lawyer?"

My question elicits another chuckle. My jaw clenches.

"No. He was a...chemist. Of sorts." At my still confused expression, he continues on. "Wolfram and Hart is a large undertaking, Buffy. We have offices all over the world, employ hundreds of thousands of people, have our hands in just about everything." He grins at me. "We might be a law firm on the surface, but our interests run much deeper than that."

Holland gives me a minute to let this sink in. I begin keeping a mental list in my head, filing away the new information as I get it.

So my father is a chemist. That much is true.

And he worked here, for Wolfram and Hart, so that has to be how he knew they were involved when I went missing.

"A chemist." I repeat the word, buying myself time to put things together.

"Of sorts," Holland repeats the sentiment from earlier, but the way he does makes my stomach churn. "I always preferred the term sorcerer, but Hank never really cared for that."

Whoa. Rewind that.

"Sorcerer?" I repeat, a little incredulous.

Really, the fact that anything surprises me anymore should be shocking in and of itself.

"Talented, too." Holland nods. "Part of what gave us so much trouble when we were looking for you."

His words jog my memory, making me think back to my last conversation with Spike.

How Dad had been performing spells, masking my presence, changing my scent. Spent the last eighteen years of my life hiding me from the very people he used to work for.

"He knew you'd come looking for me," I murmur, giving voice to the question I'd had the night before. "He knew you'd be sending vampires to look for me." I take another step forward. "How?"

Holland shakes his head, tsking me with a click of his tongue. "We'll get to that." He wags his finger at me. "Patience is a virtue."

Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I glare at him. "It isn't one of mine."

"Hank was very popular here," Holland continues, seemingly unperturbed by the menace in my voice. "Intelligent. Talented. Wolfram and Hart's golden boy. That is, until he met your mother."

I feel my eyes widen.

Mom.

In all the commotion, seeing Dad here, prodding Holland for answers about what exactly is going on and I hadn't even thought about Mom yet.

My voice is barely above a whisper.

"My mother…"

He nods. "Joyce Summers, the Vampire Slayer."

Hearing the words spoken aloud by someone other than Spike or myself is a little jarring. It makes everything seem that much more...real.

I remember suddenly that this isn't something I'm supposed to know, something they had indicated Spike was supposed to keep secret. I still don't know if they plan on doing anything to him, but I'm not in any hurry to give them a reason to.

So I try to my best to feign a look of genuine shock.

I must not do a very good job.

"Don't bother looking so surprised, Buffy." He turns his eyes away from mine, fiddling with something I can't see on top of his desk. "We know Spike's shared quite a bit of information with you already." He pauses, smirking knowingly. "Shared quite a bit with you, period. But we'll get to that in a moment. At first, we were pleased. A shining Wolfram and Hart up and comer and the Slayer, together? I can tell you, the Senior Partners were thrilled with the idea of having a Slayer on our side. The ways we could have used her...the possibilities were endless."

He says it so dreamily, with such nostalgic affection. Talking about my mother like she was just some shiny tool, some fancy instrument to be used as they saw fit.

And the implication. A slayer on our side. The side of evil.

It sounds silly, like the worst of the worst clichés. But it doesn't feel silly now as I think it, staring across at the man with the kind eyes and laugh lines around his mouth.

It makes my stomach roll.

"Of course," Holland continues, dropping his eyes down to his hands. "There were things we couldn't account for. Your mother's Watcher. The Council. The general incorruptibility of the Slayer herself. Needless to say, our plans...didn't pan out. Hank drifted further and further away from our fold, and instead of having both of them on the team, we ended up with neither."

He pauses to take in a deep breath, then exhales a long sigh, turning his glinting eyes on me again. "Then you came along."

My chest tightens. The way he's said it, I can't tell immediately if it's a good thing or a bad thing.

But the way he's staring at me makes me want to run and hide.

I force my eyes to stay locked with his, try for a tone of voice with some sarcasm, "I was beginning to wonder where I fit in here."

I watch, pulse starting to pick up speed, as Holland casually pushes himself off the edge of his desk and begins to walk toward me.

"You're special, Buffy," he says, grinning. He gestures offhandedly to the guard still standing at the edge of his desk, indicating the red marks around his neck. "You've no doubt realized that by now. But do you know why?"

I wish he would just stay at the desk. It's hard for me to keep my head straight when he's looking at me like this, approaching me. His saccharine expression, the lulling sound of his voice. It reminds me of nightmares I used to have when I was little. When everything seems like its fine, but you somehow just know it isn't.

I subtly shift round, moving so the leather chair is squarely between us. Holland notices and pauses mid-stride.

"My mom was the Slayer," I say, folding my arms to place my hands on the back of the chair. I figure I can always pick it up and use it as a weapon if I have to. "Most slayers don't have kids."

"Very good." He steps around the chair, coming closer to me again. "Do you know how many slayers have given birth?"

I dig my nails into the chair back but keep my voice level. "Guessing the number is on the low side."

He nods, stopping his approach again, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

I immediately feel better.

"Four," he says, looking thoughtfully down at the patterned carpet. "Four slayers in the whole of the line's existence have given birth to children."

I feel my eyes widen a little, my voice coming out small.

"Oh."

I don't know why the number surprises me. Spike told me this, too. Short, brutal lives. Most slayers don't live long enough to even consider having kids.

I guess I'd thought in a whole line of women, constantly being cycled through, that more than four of them might have had the chance to become mothers.

I find that the thought makes me sad.

But Holland is still talking, and I can't afford to miss anything he might be willing to tell me.

"Want to take a guess as to how many of those children were daughters?" He asks, tilting his head to the side. There's a brief pause. Then, "One."

One.

I squeeze my eyes shut, letting this sink in.

"And that would be me," I say quietly.

"That would be you."

I take a deep breath in, open my eyes.

So I'm one of four kids born to slayers, and I'm the one and only daughter.

That still doesn't explain...well, anything, really.

"Okay, so I'm rare," I say dismissively. Holland raises his eyebrows. I frown, rephrasing, "Rare to the amount of ten. That still doesn't tell me why. Why would you go to all this trouble?"

Holland considers this silently for a moment, as if deciding which tack to take next. After a minute, he turns his back on me and starts walking back around the chair and to his desk.

I watch, brow furrowed.

"Do you like to read, Buffy?" He asks suddenly, catching me off guard. His back is still to me.

I frown deeper, shaking my head. "What does that have to do with any-"

"We do," he says, cutting me off, tossing a quick glance at me over his shoulder. "We have an entire department that's purely dedicated to reading."

I don't understand where this is going. He's jumping all over the place, giving me mere bits and pieces of information, none of it adding up right in my head.

And I'm starting to get frustrated.

"Reading what?" I ask, letting my frustration color my voice.

Holland's unfazed.

"Oh, lots of different things," he says casually, turning back to maneuver something on his desk again. "Mostly historical texts. Books, scrolls, very old manuscripts. Honestly, I find it all to be a little on the dry side. But every once and a while, we find something worth looking in to."

He turns back around to face me, a loose sheaf of papers in his hand. There's some sort of scrawling, hand written type text on them, but I can't make it out from where I'm standing.

"A little over eighteen years ago, this department of ours acquired a rare book. The Tiberius Manifesto. Thought to have been destroyed around the turn of the 12th century." He thumbs the pages in his hand, looking down at them with something that looks a lot like affection.

"Are you familiar with prophecies, Buffy?"

I stare at him, narrowing my eyes. "Like…things preordained thousands of years before they happen, Nostradamus type prophecies?"

He smiles at me, wordlessly reaching out and handing me the sheaf of papers over the back of the chair. I take them from him, trying to hide how badly my hands are shaking.

It's gibberish to me. Latin, or some other dead language.

I can't read it.

"What is this?" I ask, looking back up at Holland.

"That," he says, pointing, "is a prophecy. Well, actually, it's a copy of a prophecy from the Tiberius Manifesto, one of the most complete books of Slayer prophecy to exist." He crosses his ankles, one over the other, leaning back onto the desk. "And that one is about you."

I close my eyes, shaking my head slowly.

Slayer prophecy. About me.

I feel like this shouldn't be so surprising to me, not after everything else, but I can't help the incredulous "What?" that escapes my lips on a whisper.

It seems to be the question of the hour.

Holland ignores my question.

"It doesn't call you by name, of course." He gestures toward the paper in my hand. "Merely references the daughter of the Chosen One."

"What makes you so sure it's about me?" I ask, tightening my grip, hoping to still the shaking in my hands. "There might be other...daughters in the future."

He looks away from me, out toward the window, sighing.

"When we first found the prophecy, we told your father about it immediately. We thought he'd be as pleased as were. As excited." He clears his throat, the smile faltering slightly. "He wasn't. He left work that day and never came back. Your mother was killed the same night." His eyes focus in on me again. "But you know all about that, don't you."

I frown at him, shaking my head. "I don't...not everything."

He gives me a knowing look, raising his eyebrows.

I drop my eyes down to the carpet. "I know she fought Spike. That she was...killed by Drusilla."

"Yes, Drusilla." Holland jumps in, voice suddenly enthusiastic. "We looked for her first. It should have been her. But we had so much trouble locating her, and even after we did...she would have been too...unwieldy. Difficult to control."

My head is spinning again. I'm beginning to think Holland enjoys jumping from one topic to another on purpose.

Looked for Drusilla first?

It should have been her?

What should have been her?

"What did you need Drusilla for?" I ask him, point blank, hoping he won't avoid the question.

No such luck.

"We didn't know for certain it would work the same way if it wasn't Drusilla herself that did it," he says by way of explanation, almost intentionally vague. Then his eyes light up, the twisted smile reappearing as he tosses another glance at the guard. "Clearly, we needn't have worried."

I don't know what makes me do it.

I think something in my brain finally fries up and snaps.

One minute, I'm standing behind the chair, nails still digging into the leather. The next, I pick it up and toss it violently out of my way, crossing the few steps between Holland and myself and grabbing his jacket in my hands. The sheaf of papers is smashed between us.

He stares at me, a mixture of shock and smug knowing warring in his expression.

"Just tell me what this thing says." I hiss, getting right in his face, tapping hard with one finger in the middle of his chest. "Now."

He eyes me warily, gaze going from my face, down to my hands, then back up again pointedly.

I let go of him.

He straightens his jacket, adjusts his tie. But the smug look never leaves his face.

If he's not careful, I'm going to reach up and slap it off.

"In a nutshell?" He asks after the tense moment has dragged on for just a hare longer than necessary. "You'll be called like any other slayer, only the power you receive won't be your own." He says it so flippantly, I halfway think I've heard him wrong. But he's still talking, not giving me a chance to interrupt, to ask a question. "It's...recycled, if you will. On the day you turn the same age your mother was when she was killed, you'll inherit the power that was taken from her."

Now I know I must have heard him wrong.

Because that's not possible. Not from what Spike's told me about Slayers.

I rack my brain, searching my memory bank for every conversation I've had with the vampire on the subject. What had he said? One slayer dies, another takes her place.

There's never any mention of the power being "recycled".

And what Holland's said, about the powers being inherited when I turn 25. Mom was 25 when she died.

So according to this prophecy I'm not supposed to experience and Slayer powers until my birthday.

But… "That doesn't make sense." I finish the thought out loud, shaking my head. It's December...what, 18th? 19th? My birthday is still a month away. If I'm not supposed to have any powers yet... "I've already been-"

"Getting stronger?" Holland finishes the thought for me. I whip my eyes back to his. "Healing faster? Yes, we know. It's only just started, too. That's the other half of the prophecy. Personally, my favorite part."

I blink at him, brow furrowing. He plucks the sheaf of papers into his hand, rifling through them to the third page. He clears his throat purposefully, then reads, "By the death of the mother, the daughter reborn. By the same hand one taken, the other restored." He finishes, shuffling the pages again, not looking at me. "We weren't sure exactly what it meant at first. Had to make an educated guess. I'd say we guessed correctly."

It should have been Drusilla.

Drusilla, the vampire that killed my mother. They looked for her first.

They weren't sure if it would work if it wasn't Drusilla herself that did it.

My eyes go wide.

The bite.

My hand flies up to my throat, cupping the space between the base of my neck and my shoulder, pressing against the raised flesh where the wound had been.

Holland sees my face, must know I've put two and two together.

"We'd initially planned for it to be Angelus," Holland says, eyeing my shocked expression with thinly veiled pleasure. "We've been trying to get him under our thumb for a while now, and he being Drusilla's sire...well, it seemed our best shot." He folds his hands in his lap, smiling. "Really just hedging our bets with Spike, so to speak. Neither of them could be entirely trusted to do what was needed. They aren't particularly...given to instruction."

Spike thought he was trading me for the gem. Angelus…

I close my eyes, feeling nauseous.

"The gem?" I ask, voice coming out strained, hoarse. The thought's only half formed, my brain whirling a thousand miles a minute.

But Holland just nods, clearly understanding.

"He needed a little incentive. They both did."

My eyes are still closed when I clear my throat. "Angelus said you offered him me."

Another churning wave of nausea.

"Only in as much as we indicated to him he'd be the one to bite you."

And another.

I force my eyes open, fixing the man across from me with a cold glare.

Spike was right.

Oh, God, he was right about everything.

"You wanted this to happen," I accuse, infusing my voice with as much venom as I can.

It surprises me when Holland's eyes go wide in surprise, a little indignation.

"Don't be silly, Buffy," he says dismissively. "We couldn't have known that Spike would bite you." Then he smiles again, and I feel my chest tighten. "We only knew, if he did, it might work to our advantage."

I step away from him, hands going to my stomach. I turn around, pace down to other side of the room. Whirl around, pace back.

Had I actually thought we'd beaten them to the punch? That we knew something they didn't?

That we could ever hold the cards here.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

I whirl back to Holland, coming into his personal space again.

"What did his bite do to me?" I ask, voice a tense whisper.

"Just what I said," he says the words slowly, carefully, like he doesn't want me to miss them. "Fulfilled the prophecy. Connected you to the demon, to its power."

I blink at him. Connected. Connected me to...

"Spike's demon?"

Another half formed thought. I can't keep them inside my head.

Is that what they'd promised Angelus? Some sort of...power connection between us?

It was the bite, I think, closing my eyes.

"More or less. And next month, when you're called, you'll have all the power your mother possessed on top of what you share with him."

I turn away from him, chewing on my lip, then turn back.

"So, I'll be a Slayer?" I ask, not sure whether I want him to say yes or no.

At this point, I think I'm just looking for the simplest explanation.

But nothing here is simple. I'm beginning to see that now.

"Not a slayer, Buffy." Holland says quietly, eyes intent on mine. "Much more powerful."

I run my hands through my hair, thinking of everything else he's said to me.

Connected you to the demon.

I latch on to that. "A demon then?"

"No."

I tug on the ends of my hair, exasperated.

Slayer powers but not a slayer. Connected to a demon, but not a demon.

I can't wrap my mind around it.

I whirl on him, eyes flashing. "What then?"

He stares at me a moment, taking in my wild eyes, my flushed cheeks.

When he answers, his words send a chill down my spine.

"A weapon."

I blink at him, replaying the phrase in my head a few more times.

A weapon.

"W-what kind of weapon?" I ask after a moment, my voice suddenly very weak.

Holland straightens slightly, his expression growing serious. "If the prophecy is to be believed, a nearly undefeatable one. A deciding factor in the end of days."

I almost laugh out loud, the notion is so ridiculous.

But it has to be true. They would have made sure of it before putting so much time and effort into finding me, into bringing me here.

Into fulfilling the prophecy.

My mother was a tool to them. It's what they'd wanted her to be.

Something to be used, manipulated into doing whatever they needed her to.

Seems like her Slayer powers won't be all I'm inheriting.

"You want me to be your weapon."

I don't ask it like a question. It isn't one.

It's incredibly obvious to me that that's exactly what they want, and for some reason I need to hear him say it out loud.

"Exactly."

I squeeze my eyes shut.

All I've wanted all this time were answers. Who I am. What I am. What Wolfram and Hart wants with me. Why they'd go to all this trouble. How my mother's involved. My father.

Drusilla.

Spike.

Angelus.

It's funny. Now that I have my answers, I'm wishing I was still in the dark.

Ignorance is bliss. Isn't that what they say?

I look at him, hands shaking, eyes burning.

"If I say no?" I ask, surprised when my voice doesn't shake.

I already know the answer. They've made it abundantly clear.

Showing me my father, bruised, unconscious. The twisted feeling I get in my stomach whenever Holland mentions Spike's name. The way he'd looked at him downstairs said it all.

They have me. They have everything they need to control me. Locked up, right here in the same building.

Holland smiles at me. "I think you know the answer to that."

Of course I do.

"If I'm going to be so powerful, what makes you think you'll be able to control me?"

Another stupid question. Another I already know the answer to.

So obvious, Holland doesn't even bother with a response.

I understand the bank vault of a room now.

To my right, the double doors push open. I turn in time to see Lindsey standing there.

"Lindsey," Holland says, grinning over at him. "Perfect timing. We were just finishing up."

He turns back to me, the same grin still in place. "That is, unless you have any further questions?"

I don't.

I don't have any further questions.

I can't fit anything else in my brain. It feels a little like it's going to explode as it is.

"No," I say quietly. "No questions."

"Great, Lindsey, why don't you show Lindsey back to her room?"

A little spark of rage bubbles up, tumbling passed my lips before I can stop it. "You mean my cage?"

Because that's what that room is. I realize that.

Holland frowns at me, fixing me with a stern look. "I told you. You're no prisoner, Buffy."

My eyes blaze. "No, I'm a commodity."

He nods in understanding, picks up the prophecy pages and taps them on his desk to align them. To my surprise, he reaches out and hands them back to me.

I hesitate for just a moment before taking them.

"You have a lot to think about," he says, standing up straight in front of me. "I'll be interested to hear what your decision is."

He says it just like that. Casually, business like.

Like I have a choice, when he knows I don't.

Not when they have Dad.

I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly through pursed lips.

Or Spike.

Holland just smiles in a way I'm sure he thinks is charming, gestures sweepingly to the doorway. "I'll have someone let you know when your father wakes up."

Wordlessly, I turn on my heel and start toward the door, where Lindsey's still standing. I don't stop when I reach him, just keep moving, storming back down the hallway to the elevator at the end.

"Where's my dad?" I ask when he catches up to me, pressing the down button on the elevator.

"You think I'm authorized to tell you that?" He asks back as the doors close, leaving us inside the cramped space.

The question is obviously rhetorical.

I answer him anyway.

"He's my dad." I shift my eyes over to his. "Do you think I care what you're authorized to do?"

He smirks. "You'll be able to see him when he wakes up, Miss Summers."

I let out a long, loud sigh.

"You guys keep saying I'm not a prisoner," I mutter, closing my eyes, "but it feels like I don't have a lot of say in when and how I do things."

Lindsey doesn't respond to that.

When I open my eyes again I find him staring straight ahead, watching the floors tick down on the elevator's floor indicator.

I decide to try again.

"You can't even tell me what floor he's on?"

Lindsey doesn't balk.

"We all have procedures we have to follow."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

I'm starting to get real fed up with this lawyer crap.

Not that'd I'd expected him to spill his guts about where they're keeping my dad. If they want to keep me feeling 'cooperative' they have to keep me...how had Holland phrased it?

Under their thumb.

The best way to do that is to keep Dad's whereabouts to themselves. They aren't stupid.

So, I won't be getting any information out of Lindsey on that.

Doesn't mean I won't get any information out of him.

"Yeah?" I ask snidely, thinking about the immense amount of tension and distrust I'd seen displayed between Lindsey and Angelus over the past 24 hours. "What procedures does your pal Angelus follow?"

For the first time since meeting him, I see Lindsey's expression shift from impassive to dark. "Angelus," he says, sneering the name, "is a loose cannon. And definitely not my pal."

At least I got an answer this time, and not another rhetorical question.

That's a start.

"But he's working for you, isn't he?"

Lindsey's eyes shift toward mine. "Don't tell him that." He looks back away from me, crosses his arms down below his waist, clasping his right wrist in his left hand. "Besides, from what I hear, we won't be needing him around much longer."

I nod noncommittally, trying to keep my expression neutral. The last thing I need is for Wolfram and Hart to know how much Angelus worries me. At least when it comes to Spike.

They already have too much power.

"He's leaving then?" I ask, still trying to sound casual.

If Lindsey's curious about why I'm asking, he doesn't say anything about it.

"Something like that," is his only response.

I consider this.

So they're going to get rid of him. I guess it isn't surprising, now that they know Spike's bite has done its job.

Supposedly.

I wonder briefly if that means staking him, or just turning him loose.

Personally? I'd like to see a dusty ending.

Either way, it'll be a relief to see him go. One less thing to worry about.

One down, 4,756 to go.

I follow Lindsey out of the elevator, down the small hallway, back down the three flights of concrete stairs and through the double doors leading to my bedroom/bank vault/prison cell.

And if I'm going to be stuck there for a while I should probably come up with a catchier name for it.

We come to a stop outside the big metal door. Lindsey turns toward the keypad, and I frown.

"Holland told me he was the only one who could get in here," I say, remembering what he'd promised me earlier to get me to leave with him.

Lindsey turns to face me.

"No," he says very matter-of-factly. "At least three of us know the codes for every door in the building at any given time."

I raise my eyebrows. "One of those 'procedures'?"

Lindsey nods, turning back to the keypad.

So Holland had lied. Why lie about something like that?

Something so trivial?

And if he could lie about that just to get me to come upstairs, what else could he lie to me about?

I look down at the papers still clutched in my hand, frowning deeper.

The reason he'd said I couldn't stay in the room to talk was because Spike was on a need to know basis. But what's there to keep me from just...telling Spike everything I know now?

It doesn't make sense to me.

Then again, not a whole lot does today.

I look at Lindsey's back, then to his hand on the keypad, then to the big metal door.

And then I hear it. From behind the big metal door, hollowly, like the walls themselves are sound proof.

There's a muffled, thundering crash.

Followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of Spike's roar.


	24. Chapter 22

I wrench open the heavy door, shoving Lindsey aside, and run into the room. Spike's standing there in the center of the space, in full demon guise. The cut over his eye's been reopened, dripping blood down across his face.

I whip my eyes over to where his are focused. I'm half expecting to see Angelus standing there, and the relief I feel when he isn't only lasts a moment before I realize what I'm seeing. Three men, the same burly looking guards from before, are surrounding him.

One has a stake, one has a syringe and the other has what looks like a smaller version of the cattle prods, closer to the tasers women carry in their purses than the larger weapons I've seen up to this point.

None of these guards wear masks, for once leaving all their faces bare to me.

A feel a little surge of pride when I notice that one of the guards is limping, and the two others look more than a little hesitant to approach my vampire.

It's obvious a struggle's occurred.

It's obvious Holland hadn't been telling the truth about Spike being perfectly fine if I left him here alone.

I storm further into the room, immediately crossing to place myself between Spike and the three men. I whirl on them.

"What are you doing?" I ask, eyes zeroing in on the guard who's holding the stake. He's tall, taller than Spike, with dark skin and chocolate colored eyes.

He makes no move to answer my question, merely stares past me, keeping his wary eyes locked on Spike. I can see from here that his lip is split, bleeding at the corner.

Keeping my eyes on the man in front of me, I twist my body a little, chancing a quick glance back at Spike before turning forward again.

Other than the cut on his forehead, he seems to be in on piece. And entirely un-dusty.

"You okay?" I ask him, not taking my eyes off the stake.

"Just fine, pet," he answers from behind me, I can practically hear the smirk in his voice. "The boys and I were just gettin' to know each other, s'all."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Lindsey stepping somewhat cautiously into the room.

"You want to tell me what's going on here?" I ask him, my voice accusing.

"I'd like to know the answer to that, myself," Spike quips from behind me.

Lindsey looks at me, then back to the four guards. There's a short pause as he considers them, then he waves his hand dismissively and all four of them lower their would-be weapons at once.

I feel my shoulders relax just slightly but I don't move from my position. Spike shifts a little behind me, stepping up closer to my back. Now that I've been made aware of it, of the connection between us, I feel it now. It's faint. Not overwhelming at all, just the barest hum, like my skin starts to vibrate with his nearness.

I'm hyper aware of his presence behind me, can tell what position his body is in.

My eyes are now glued to Lindsey as he stares at us, the slight confusion and wariness I'd seen in his gaze outside the door all but wiped away.

If he'd hoped to make me think he hadn't known this was going on, the pretense is gone now.

"It's only a blood sample, Miss Summers," he says, indicating the syringe still gripped in one of the men's hands.

"Blood sample?" Spike asks, voice incredulous. "What do you need my sodding blood for?"

I twist my head back toward him. He's still in his demon visage, and the confused expression on his face looks almost comical in contrast to the glowing eyes and glinting fangs.

"No reason, really." I turn my gaze back to Lindsey, who takes another step forward, features unreadable. "Just research."

Something isn't right here.

My eyes dart down to the nasty looking needle, then back up to the lawyer.

"Research," I repeat flatly.

Lindsey nods.

I'm certain this has something to do with what Holland's told me. Something having to do with the prophecy. Though, why they would need Spike's blood and not mine, I don't know.

And why they wouldn't just tell me they were going to get it in the first place is way weird.

I raise an eyebrow, unconvinced. "And the stake?"

He raises an eyebrow right back. "You expect us to send our men in here with a Master Vampire, unarmed?"

I frown. Master Vampire?

Behind me, I can practically feel Spike puff his chest out.

I shake my head. We'll get into that later.

"At this point, I don't expect anything from you at all," I say, narrowing my eyes on him.

His lips quirk up in a half smirk. "That's probably wise."

I clench my jaw, straighten my shoulders and turn to face Spike, not giving a second thought to turning my back on the armed men.

The first thought I have is how unbelievably glad I am to see him. I hadn't realized how tense I'd become in the time I'd spent upstairs, though part of that I'm sure has a lot to do with…well, everything else.

Nearly every muscle in my body relaxes now, looking up into his face.

Even if it is the demon I'm seeing.

Or maybe because of it.

His golden eyes take on an otherworldly glow in the fluorescent lights, and there's no mistaking the concern in them. He doesn't bother to hide it.

"You alright, luv?" He asks quietly, the words

obviously meant for my ears only. "Your heart's beatin' a mile a minute."

I frown. Is it? I hadn't even noticed.

"I'm fine," I lie, the phrase sounding even more tinny and hollow than normal. "More worried about you."

The second part's the truth.

Any concern I'd had for myself flew out the window somewhere between watching Spike get beaten and seeing my Dad slumped unconscious in that chair.

"Nothin' to worry about here," my vampire assures me, readily.

I raise both eyebrows, dragging my eyes up from his to the bleeding cut across his forehead, and back down again.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

He smirks at me. "Nothin' I can't handle–"

"This is all very sweet," Lindsey interrupts him, drawing both of our gazes back in his direction. "But we have some business to attend to."

"Piss off," Spike growls, taking a lunging step forward.

Lindsey's eyes go wide, and my hand instinctively flies out to catch Spike around the arm. Not that I'd mind seeing him beat the crap out of the little lawyer, but the last thing I need is for Spike to give Wolfram and Hart a reason, any reason, to hurt him.

Lindsey, for his part, has schooled his features back into their usual unaffected mask.

It might be believable if I hadn't just seen the panic all over his face.

"Not until we get that sample."

Spike glares at him, fangs bared. "Not bloody likel—"

"Just do it." I cut him off, eyes on the ground at Lindsey's feet.

I feel him turn his gaze on me, but I don't look up. All I want right now is for this part of the day to be over. The quicker they get what they want, the quicker they leave.

And I need them to leave.

I drag my eyes up to Spike's, searching his face, hoping to convey everything I'm thinking with just this one look. "Please."

I see it the moment he understands what I'm saying. His expression softens, features shifting, melting back to his human face. He considers me for a moment, azure eyes stormy as they gaze at me. Then he nods.

Without another word, he sidesteps around me, stalks over to the men and snatches the syringe out of the guard's hand. I watch as he jabs the needle into his right forearm, pulls the plunger up, yanks it out and tosses it back all in seemingly one lightning fast movement.

"There," he growls, narrowing his eyes, turning his head back toward Lindsey. "Now sod off."

The lawyer smiles at us in a cold, false way that reminds me exactly who and what it is we're dealing with. His eyes shift to the men in front of us, and with a quick nod of his head, they turn and head for the door.

"It's been a pleasure," Lindsey drawls, letting the full extent of his southern accent out to the fore. He plucks the syringe from the guard's hand, glances at it meaningfully, smirks at us once more and walks out of the room.

We stand completely still, side by side, watching as the heavy metal door shifts back into place making it's groaning, shuddering sound as it locks. I stare at it, unspeaking, letting the full weight of everything that's just transpired hit me, everything I've just been told...

When my legs give out, I let them.

Spike's there in an instant, I knew he would be, wrapping one arm around my waist and the other beneath my knees, lifting me into his embrace. He crosses the room in three long strides, dropping down onto the side of the large bed and tucking me more firmly against him.

I just let him hold me. I don't know for how long.

I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the tearstains, the dampness soaking through the cotton of Spike's t-shirt.

"Shh," he murmurs into my hair, gently rocking me back and forth. "It's alright, luv."

But it isn't.

There are a million things that this situation is, and "alright" is not one of them.

I shake my head, put my hand on his chest and press myself up, leveraging away from him so I can look into his face. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I clear my throat of the tears that have lodged there. When I speak, my voice is hollow.

"They have my dad."

I watch the different emotions drift cross Spike's face. Disbelief and confusion. His brows knit together, and it's his turn to shake his head.

"Your dad?"

I nod, wiping the last of tears away with the back of my hand. "Here, in the building."

Understanding lights in his eyes, his brow smoothing.

"No, they don't," he says soothingly, moving to rub my back.

I jerk out of his reach, sniffling. "Yes, they do."

Spike shakes his head. "They're lying, sweet. Trying to manipulate you. You can't beli-"

"I saw him, Spike," I interrupt quickly, a little forcefully. His eyes widen. "He was in the room. He..." I think about what he'd looked like. How thin, how ragged. The bruising on his face. I let out a shuddering sigh, mumbling, "I don't know what they did to him."

There's a beat as my vampire takes in the new information.

"How did they find him?"

I shake my head, sniffling again, wipe a stray tear from out of the corner of my eye.

"They didn't," I explain. "According to Holland, he sought them out...came here looking for me. He knew… You were right. God, you were right about everything." My eyes drop down to the sheaf of papers, the ones I'm still gripping in my hand. "They wanted this to happen."

I've said the words, I know I have. But so quietly.

I only know Spike's freaky vampire hearing picks them up when he asks, "What's that, pet?"

"The bite," I say, and once I start, I can't keep the words from tumbling out in whoosh. "You bit me, right? A-and…I don't know. When you bit me...you were right. It started...something. I still don't think I understand it all. He only read me one part of it…"

Spike lays his hand on my arm, stopping me, drawing my gaze back to his.

"Slow down, pet," he murmurs, clearly struggling to keep up. "What are you talkin' about? Read you one part of what?"

Oh.

Right.

"This," I say, bringing the papers to his attention.

His eyes drop down to them, dark brows lowering. "And what is that?"

I follow the line of his gaze with my own, looking down at the papers in my hand, too.

"What is it," I say, reading through the gibberish again, "or what did Holland tell me it is?"

Beside me, Spike chuckles.

I look up at him. He's smirking at me.

"Not the same thing, then?" He asks, a slight teasing edge to his voice.

"I don't know…" I trail off, looking down at the papers again.

A thought occurs to me.

I couldn't read it, but maybe he can. It might be in Latin. I have no way of knowing.

Maybe Spike can tell me what it says. What it really says.

Maybe it isn't anything at all. He might be right, Wolfram and Hart's just trying to manipulate me. It would leave me without answers again, but the thought I'd had upstairs, about ignorance being bliss, is in my head again.

Shifting out of his lap, I push myself onto the mattress beside him, handing him the slightly crumpled papers. But he isn't looking at what's in my hand. His eyes are riveted on my face, studying me cautiously.

When I shake the papers and raise my eyebrows, he takes them from me. But his eyes don't leave my face.

I sigh. "It's a prophecy...supposedly. One about me."

Spike still isn't looking at the papers.

"And?" He prompts me. "What's it say?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," I say, sniffling a little.

Spike raises a scarred eyebrow.

"I can't read it," I explain, waving a hand at the papers. I grimace, thinking back to the conversation I've just had. "All I know about it is what Holland told me it says, and I…"

"Don't trust him," Spike supplies.

To say the very least.

I nod. "Yeah."

His gaze drops down, finally turning his attention to the papers in his hand. I watch his eyes shift quickly, back and forth, down through the first page and over onto the second. His eyes are narrowed, squinting with the effort of decoding the handwritten text.

After a moment, he shakes his head. When his eyes meet mine, they're open, earnest.

And discouraged.

"Don't know I can read this, luv. Not a language I recognize."

"It isn't Latin, then."

"Not any Latin I've ever seen." Spike looks back down at the papers, shuffles them, turning them back and forth in his hands. He stares hard at one of the passages. Then, "Similar enough, I s'pose. Some words are the same..." he trails off, shaking his head. "even then, pet, it's been years since I've read any."

"Try?" I ask, searching his eyes with mine.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt before he can. "Just try. Even if it's only keywords...it might help me figure out if he was telling the truth or not."

For a moment, I think he's going to protest again.

He doesn't.

Without another word, he turns his eyes down to the pages in his lap and begins to read them. I watch him, observe his eyes darting almost impossibly quick from one side of the page to the other. It takes me a little while to realize he's reading the same lines over and over again, several times, before moving on to the next one.

A while later, maybe forty-five minutes, he looks up at me.

"What'd that wanker tell you this said?"

"In a nutshell?" I ask, recalling the words Holland had used when I'd asked essentially the same question. "I'll inherit my mom's Slayer powers on my 25th birthday next month, and your bitey thing started some demony connection between us."

Spike stares at me for a long moment, blinking.

"Meaning?" He asks, eyebrows raised.

"The reason I've been getting stronger, healing faster? You. I'm...connected to your demon, or something. I think it has something to do with our blood…"

"That's what all the prod and probe was about, then," He muses, standing up. I watch him pace back and forth a few times.

He stops suddenly, frowning. He glances at me. "Why my bite?"

It's a question I'd sort of hoped he wouldn't ask.

I look away from him, chewing on my bottom lip.

"He said it should have been Drusilla," I say, my voice soft. When I chance a look back up at Spike's face his expression is dark. His eyes search my face.

I swear I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head.

"Dru?" He asks, but it isn't a question. Not really. It's more disbelief than curiosity.

I nod.

"They thought it wouldn't work unless they had the vampire that did it." Both his eyebrows shoot up, eyes going wide.

Even though I know he understands, I finish the thought anyway.

"Killed my mom."

Spike's eyes drop down again, and I watch him shuffle the papers in his hand. He pulls the top page up, close to his face, scanning a particular passage quickly.

There's a beat as he finishes re-reading and when he speaks his voice is hushed.

"That's why they came to me."

It's more to himself than to me.

His eyes are still down, still focused on the paper, so I clear my throat and drop my eyes to my lap.

"And Angelus," I say softly, hating to bring the other vampire up but feeling like I need to. "Holland said they were 'hedging their bets'."

I don't look up when Spike comes back to the bed, dropping down beside me once more. He lets out a soft groan.

"They needed one of us to bite you."

I nod slowly.

"Instant prophecy girl," I murmur, still chewing on my lip. I turn my head toward him just as he turns to look at me. "Just add fangs."

The ghost of his trademark smirk ghosts the corner of Spike's lips, but it falls barely a moment later.

"So, the poofters did want this to happen then." He reaches his hand out, brushing my hair away from my shoulder so he can get a view of my neck.

I give him an understanding look and shrug. "I told you you were right."

Spike shakes his head, not looking at me, eyes glued to the spot where his mark must be.

"Wouldn've minded bein' wrong."

He splays his hand over the curve of my throat, traces the faded bite with the pad of his thumb. Back and forth, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

I close my eyes, letting his presence beside me, the cool touch of his hand, soothe my scattered nerves.

Admitting to needing him is easier now. Feeling safe with him. The way he's able to make me feel so strongly, have such visceral reactions to him. If everything Holland's told me is true, then it makes sense.

I think I'd be more concerned if it didn't seem to be more than one sided.

"S' my fault."

I'm not even sure I've heard him right, he's spoken so softly.

I blink my eyes open, focusing on the vampire in front of me. His thumb is still moving in slow, steady circles over the mark on my throat, but his eyes are down now.

I frown at him, even though he doesn't see it. "What?"

"'S my fault, yeah? You bein' here. Bein' in this situation."

Oh.

Oh.

I'm not sure what to say. On one hand, it is his fault. In a way. He agreed to Wolfram and Hart's deal, even it had been a ruse. He'd kidnapped me. Bit me.

Started this whole wig-tastic ball rolling.

But on the other hand, the much bigger, much more impressive hand, it isn't his fault at all.

I have a feeling I'd have ended up at this moment no matter what. Wolfram and Hart clearly thought this through. If it hadn't been Spike, it would have been Angelus.

And if the prophecy is real, if what I've been told is true, it kind of makes the whole thing moot anyway. Isn't that what makes a prophecy a prophecy?

The inevitability?

I sigh, reaching up to cover Spike's hand on my neck with my own.

"It doesn't matter now."

And it's the truth.

His expression is dubious, like he thinks it definitely does matter.

It doesn't.

What's done is done. Now we have to deal with the consequences.

Whatever those turn out to be.

"It's okay," I tell him, squeezing his hand gently.

Before I can say anything else, Spike pulls me forward and covers my lips with his.

This isn't like before. Not a chaste, domestic peck, but a searing open mouthed kiss that I feel in my bones.

He slides his cool tongue along my bottom lip, coaxing me to open for him. I do, inhaling deeply, pressing my hand more firmly against the back of his. The kiss is deep right from the beginning, soft and incredibly slow. Every nerve in my body reacts to him instantly. Wanting him closer, needing to feel him against me.

I savor the taste of him on my tongue when it tangles with his. There's no cigarette smoke this time, or any whiskey, either. There's the faintest metallic taste of blood, my blood, and that's it. The rest is just Spike.

It's dizzying.

I reach up, thread my fingers into his hair and tug his mouth harder into mine. He lets out a little sound, something between a purr and a growl, but doesn't move to deepen the kiss further, doesn't try to press me for anything more.

And I'm grateful, because this, just this, for now…it's enough.

After a little while Spike sighs against my lips, reluctantly pulls away from me.

"Thank you," he murmurs, turning his hand around to entwine his fingers with mine, bringing my hand up to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against my knuckles, then turns his eyes back down to the photo copied papers in his lap.

I stare at him, blinking, waiting for him to expound on the gratitude. I have no idea what he's just thanked me for.

I haven't done anything.

When he's silent for a minute, I realize he's still reading the text. Trying to, at least. I'd thought he was finished when he'd asked me about it earlier.

Apparently not.

I let him read for a little while longer, content to sit on the bed beside him. His lips are soft, cool and firm, pressed into my knuckles.

I've just begun to relax when I feel it. His body suddenly freezes, going rigid beside me. The hand still holding mine tightens its grip.

It lasts for only a moment.

Spike's muscles relax all at once, and he clears his throat. I look at him, brow furrowing. His expression is too casual.

"You're not fooling anyone," I tell him, pulling my hand out his. "What is it?"

He shifts his eyes over to mine and, seeing the expression on my face, sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly through pursed lips.

The gesture reminds me he hasn't smoked a cigarette in nearly two days.

I wonder briefly if vampires feel the nicotine withdrawal as badly as humans do.

"What else did our friend tell you about this, luv?" He asks, bringing me back to the present, shaking the papers in his hand for emphasis.

"Um," I blink, thinking back, ticking off the important parts in my head. Demon connection. Slayer powers. Inheritance. "Not a lot." Then, a second later, "Oh, he said that I'm a weapon." Spike's expression darkens, his eyes flashing. I falter. "Something about being a-a weapon…" I trail off, stammering.

His jaw tics. "Is that it?"

I shake my head no, wondering what Spike might have read to make him act so twitchy.

Something Holland clearly left out.

"He mentioned me being a factor in the end of days," I offer, my voice coming out small.

Beside me, he nods. "And that's all?"

I frown deeply, brows knitting together. "That's it." I narrow my eyes. "Why?"

Spike promptly rolls the pieces of paper up, placing them on the bed beside him.

Like putting it away will make me forget it's there.

"'S not important."

I roll my eyes, turning my body to face him more directly.

For a soulless demon, he's the worst liar I've ever met.

"Spike," I say warningly.

He looks at me, affecting as innocent an expression as he can manage.

"'S nothin', Buffy."

I feel my own features darken, eyes narrowing on him. Whatever it is he's read, or thinks he's read, it's bothering him enough to hide it from me. He doesn't want me to know about it.

Which only makes me feel worse.

I feel my stomach churn at the possibilities, cheeks flushing with a mixture of fear and anger.

"What did you read?" I ask, my voice dropping low. "And don't lie to me, I'm tired of it."

I feel like it's all anyone's done since I got to this God forsaken place.

When Spike makes no move to answer me, I glare at him, reaching around him for the rolled papers.

He smacks my hand away, snatching them out of my reach before I can even get my fingers around them.

Like I could read them even If I had.

Letting out a frustrated noise, anger starting to burn through my veins, I leap to my feet and whirl on him.

"Okay, what?" I ask, voice pitching too high. "What is it?"

"Nothin' you need to be concerned with, luv."

My eyes blaze, mouth dropping open.

You've got to be joking.

"Nothing I need to be…" I trail off, fuming. My face is on fire now. "That entire thing concerns me! It's about me!"

Spike looks at me, unmoving. He's trying to keep his face calm but I can see it. His jaw, the muscle there, clenching with the effort.

"If this is about you," he says, pointedly emphasizing the word, "Then yeah, calls you a weapon."

I step back, straightening my shoulders.

"I knew that already." I say quietly, voice low. My eyes stay narrowed. "Tell me what you read, Spike."

"I told you," he says, tilting his head to the side. His voice is equally quiet. "'s nothin'."

My eyes flash, and something inside me snaps.

"Stop lying!" I shout at him, throwing my hands up in the air. "My God, this is my life we're talking about!"

Spike growls, pushing himself to his feet and into my personal space in an instant.

I take an involuntary step back, surprised.

"You wanna know, pet?" He asks, practically snarling. "Fine then. Doesn't say you're goin' to play a part in the end of days, alright? Says you're goin' to start them."

I stagger backwards as if he's slapped me, reeling from his words.

"What?"

"You," he says, voice a little softer now, tossing the papers back onto the bed, "bloody bringin' the apocalypse."

I stare at him, gaping.

A weapon. It's what I am. A weapon that's supposed to end the world as we know it. I think about those other girls, the names on the list Wolfram and Hart gave Spike. I think about the people at the Q Mart…the people in Denver. Think about the way I'd felt hearing about them, knowing it was me in whatever way that was responsible.

And I compare that feeling to the weight of the world, the weight I'm feeling now.

All those people. So many lives.

It makes it all look so small. So unimportant.

Like nothing.

The nausea hits me first. Like getting sucker punched in the gut.

It's followed almost immediately by the light headedness.

The entire world.

"Oh, God," I whisper, one shaking hand flying up to cover my mouth.

Spike's in front of me before I even know he's moved, gripping my shoulders tightly.

"Doesn't mean anythin' Buffy," he says, all traces of anger gone, wiped from his eyes as he looks at me now. "For all we know, I'm bloody readin' it wrong."

I stare at him, blinking slowly. Everything feels hazy, like I'm stuck in a fog.

"And if you're not?" I ask dazedly.

"Doesn't matter."

His words echo in my ears, drawing me back to the moment. I'm hyper aware of his cool hands on my flushed skin, gripping my arms tightly.

Doesn't matter.

I look at him, wet eyes widening. "How can you say that?"

He grits his teeth, eyes going up to the ceiling. My name is almost a growl on his lips. "Buffy—"

I wrench myself away from his grip, eyes narrowed dangerously. I feel my fingers itch, almost involuntarily curling into fists.

"Of course it matters."

Spike steps back a little, holds his hands up, palms facing me.

"Look, that's not what I—" he cuts himself off, letting out a breathy, humorless laugh. "We don't even know if any of that is real."

It happens again. Blind, white-hot rage. So fast, I don't realize it's happened at all until I'm watching Spike crash back first into the cement wall to left of the bed.

"Feels pretty real to me," I say loudly, my chest heaving.

Spike nods appreciatively, staggering to his feet. "Me too."

His hand goes to his throat as he crosses back toward me, rubbing the red hand print I'd left there when I'd picked him up.

My stomach drops, and the flash of rage dissipates.

"Oh," I breathe, eyes widening. "Oh, God, I'm sorry." I take the final few steps, meeting him halfway. I replace his hand with my own, gently touching him, looking for damage. "I-I don't know what happened."

Spike smiles at me knowingly. "I do." His eyes go meaningfully to mark on my neck. I look away. "Demon connection's about more'n just strength, pet."

I look at my hand, the one still gently pressed to Spike's neck.

A weapon.

I might not be a demon, but I share things with one. So is that it? Am I evil? The daughter of a Slayer, a force for good, twisted and turned around into a tool of destruction?

I don't feel evil. But what does evil feel like?

Would I even know it if I did?

"I'm…" I start to apologize again, but it isn't enough. I can't think of anything to say. I shake my head, looking back up at Spike with wet, glistening eyes. "What are we going to do?"

The half smile melts off his face instantly, his hands coming back up to encircle my arms. "Buffy—"

I shake my head, fighting to keep the unshed tears in my eyes, keep them from slipping down my cheeks.

"I can't just sit here. I can't wait around for them to use me to…"

I can't say it.

I don't think I even know what to say. What to call it. Let them use me to…what, exactly. Bring about the end of days? Destroy the world?

I'd joked that I was prophecy girl.

Am I apocalypse girl, too?

"We've got time to think of somethin'," Spike says softly, dipping his head down a little so he can see my eyes. "You said your birthday's not until next month, yeah?"

My birthday. Of course.

The prophecy won't be over, complete fulfilled…whatever until my birthday.

This isn't over. Not set in stone.

Not yet.

Something that feels suspiciously like hope floods my chest.

I blink, nodding. "The 18th."

He must sense the change in my attitude, my body language, because he smiles. "Okay then."

I gently break his hold on my arms, turning away from him and making my way back over to the bed. I pick the paper up, unfold it, stare down at the words I can't read with unseeing eyes.

"We have to find a way to stop it, Spike," I murmur, turning my eyes up to his again. "Stop them."

Stop me.

Spike's expression shifts, turning somber. "Prophecies don't work that way, luv."

He's right. That's sort of where the whole inevitability thing comes in.

Still.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, eyes drifting from his down to the paper in my hands, and back up again.

"There's always a way to fight these things though, right? I mean," I let out a small, hysteric laugh, "if there weren't, the world would've ended a long time ago."

Spike steps closer to me, brow furrowed.

"I don't know, pet," he says, gaze flitting to the papers in my hand, then back to mine. "If what I read's right, somethin' in there bout no mortal hand or weapon bein' able to stop this."

Oh.

So, weapons…not so much with the helpful. Good to know.

But there's a way. A way to stop this. There's gotta be.

"There has to be something we can do."

Spike looks at me thoughtfully, then reaches out and takes the papers in his own hand, flipping to the third page. He puts his finger beneath one of the words and holds it out to me.

"Unstoppable." He taps his fingers against the paper once. "That's the word here, Buffy. The way it describes you."

I watch him drop back down onto the bed, the mattress jostling beneath his weight.

Unstoppable.

The word makes me feel incredibly powerful and very afraid all at once. Great and terrible. Heady and horrifying.

And not an answer I'm willing to take.

I look at Spike and tell him plainly "I don't accept that."

He smirks at me, the beginnings of a tongue curl barely visible between his teeth.

"You're a right stubborn chit, you know that?"

But there's no venom in it. Only affection. Warm, honest-to-God affection. And maybe a little admiration thrown in, too.

"There has to be something," I repeat firmly.

Spike eyes me from beneath his lashes, thinking about it, drumming his fingers on the top of his denim-clad thigh. His lips are pursed in thought.

"What we need is someone who can read this," he says finally, looking up at me. At my eyebrow raise, he scoffs. "I mean actually read it, not some sodding half assed attempt based on words that sort of resemble Latin."

"Okay, fine. Who?"

He thinks for a minute. I can visibly see it on his face when the light bulb goes on.

"Richard," he says quickly, standing up again. "Your mum's Watcher…bleeding Council types, probably all have to learn this rubbish."

He shakes the papers for emphasis when he says the word "rubbish".

I feel the beginnings of a smile on my lips.

This is good. It's a start, at least. Something to go on, anything to go on, is better than just sitting here waiting.

I take a step closer to Spike, dropping my voice down low.

"You said he was still living in New York?"

He nods, voice dropping to match mine. "Last I heard, yeah."

"Can you find him?"

He frowns, thinking. "Dunno. Maybe, might be tricky—"

"Can you find him?" I ask again, more deliberately this time.

Spike looks at me, the appreciate smirk back in place. He raises his scarred eyebrow.

"As much as I enjoy this more…authoritative side of yours, you're forgettin' somethin', luv." He eyes me, leaning back on his elbows. "We're locked in here. This bloody concrete box." He glances around the room absently. "Probably two floors below ground."

Three.

"Three."

Spike whips his eyes back to mine, pinning me with a sardonic look.

"Right then."

I shake my head, turning around, taking a few steps close to the metal door.

Surely they won't leave us down here. They'll have to come back eventually, right? At the very least to drop off food.

I glance back at Spike.

Or to take more samples for their "research".

Then I remember.

"They said they'd come back and get me. Once my dad woke up, they said they'd come get me," I tell Spike, coming back toward him. He's eyeing me with interest. "I don't know if they'd take me to his room, or if they'd take me to him someplace else. But if I can find where they're keeping him…"

Spike sits up again, frowning. "You think that's smart?"

I frown back at him. "What?"

"Only gonna set the warnin' bells off if you go snoopin', lookin' for his room. We should get out, get reinforcements. Come back once we've—"

"No." I cut him off without a second thought.

He gives me a look, pushes himself to his feet. "Buffy, luv—"

"No." I cut him off again, more forcefully this time, tone brooking no argument. "He's my dad, Spike. I'm not leaving him here." I turn away from him, take two steps toward the door, turn back around. "I won't go 'snooping', okay? But I can look around while I'm out there. Look for a way out."

Spike folds his arms over his chest. "And the guards?"

The guards. I'd almost forgotten about them.

My hands curl reflexively into fists, eyes darting to the still red mark on Spike's throat that my hand left.

I think about the guard from before, the one in Holland's office. The look in his eyes when I'd squeezed, the way he'd flinched away from me as he left.

My eyes zero in again on Spike.

"We'll deal with the guards."

An actual grin splits his face. A grin that's verging on wicked.

"Not kill," I say quickly, putting my hand out in a stopping motion. "Just…deal."

Spike nods, still grinning wickedly. Then he looks down, sucking his teeth.

"So, let me get this straight," he says, glancing up at me, then back down. He starts to pace. "You want to sneak out, take a peek around, hope you find what you're lookin' for." His eyes shoot to mine again, still smirking. "Then you and I, we somehow bust out, yeah? Spring your pap, 'deal' with the guards and…just waltz out the front door?" he pauses for dramatic effect, turning back to face me. "That's your plan?"

When he puts it all out there like that, I'll admit, it sounds a little lame.

And more than a little…well, bad.

Gigli, bad.

But it isn't the whole plan.

And I don't see him coming up with anything.

I cross my arms over my chest, mirroring him, and ask "You have a better one?"

The teasing look vanishes and his arms fall to his sides as he steps up to me. His azure eyes are nothing but sincere. "I'll do anythin' you ask me to, luv."

His hand comes up to cup my face, cool against my still flushing cheek.

I stare at him, eyes searching his, hoping more than ever that he means what he's just said.

And I feel the way he's looking at me all the way down to my toes. It's that same look from earlier, before I'd gone up to speak with Holland.

Like I'm the sun.

I'll never get used to this.

"Then yeah," I say softly, smiling a tiny smile up at him. "That's part A of the plan."

He nods, eyes traveling to his thumb, watching it's movement as he brushes it tenderly over my cheek bone before dropping his hand again.

He takes a step back.

"So what happens after we get out of here, then?"

"Part B of the plan," I tell him quickly, matter-of-factly, hoping he'll drop it.

Spike stands still, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don't, he prompts me, gesturing with his hand. "And that would be?"

The truth? I don't know.

I don't know all the details of Part B. I pretty much made Part A up as I went.

So I do the same thing now.

"We find Richard," I say slowly, turning around, walking toward the door again. "Show him the prophecy, hope he can translate it. Tell us what it really means." I stop walking, my voice going soft. "If it really says what we think it does."

I feel rather than see Spike tense up behind me. Can feel his body buzzing, seemingly tuned into mine. He's doing that mind reading thing again. I know it.

Because the timing was too perfect. The way he'd stilled behind me, unneeded breath catching. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

Like we realized it at the same time.

"And?" He asks, his voice growing darker, angrier with each word. "If it says what we think it does? If it the whole thing is bloody unstoppable?" He pauses, and I wait for it, knowing he's going to make me say it. "What then?"

I take a deep breath in, exhale slowly through my nose. Then I clench my jaw, steel my gaze and turn around to face him.

He already knows what I'm going to say. It's written all over his face.

I don't even need to say it.

I do anyway.

"Then you kill me."


	25. Chapter 23

I watch as Spike's eyes blaze; he takes an impulsive step toward me.

"No," he growls, voice dangerous. "Bloody…" he trails off, staring at me. He shakes his head as though trying to clear it of some awful image. "Buggeringfuck, no."

It's the answer I'd expected. Even with his promise from earlier, that he'd do anything I ask him to. I'd known the second he realized what I was going to say, what the second part of the plan was, that he wouldn't be on board.

Not right away.

I sigh, a long exhale through my nose, and turn fully around to face him. His hands are curled into fists at his sides, shaking with barely controlled rage. Not at me. Never at me.

At himself, maybe. At the situation we've found ourselves in.

When I speak again I try to keep my voice as level as possible.

"You have to."

His eyes narrow.

"Like hell I do," he snarls, whirling away from me. I watch as he starts to pace, back and forth, like a tiger in a cage.

I reach my hand up, squeezing my head at each temple between my thumb and middle finger.

"That thing says no mortal hand, right?" I ask, already knowing the answer, trying a new tactic to explain the logic to my vampire.

Spike stops pacing, pausing mid stride to face me again. He's frowning deeply, brow furrowed.

"What are you—"?

"I'd do it myself if I thought I could," I say quickly, interrupting his question. I drop my hand away and take a step closer to him. "But as far as I know, I'm still mostly human." At his blank look, I continue on. "Mortal." When there's still no recognition, I sigh again, holding my hands out to him palms up. "Hands of the mortal variety."

His eyes widen in understanding, and he takes a step backwards, closer to the bed.

He shakes his head and says quietly, "Christ, Buffy."

I nod, crossing to the other side of him where we've left the papers rolled up on the mattress. I pick it up; hold it in both my hands.

Funny how a couple feather light pieces of paper can feel like the weight of the world.

Or the end of it.

I turn back to Spike, searching his face, trying my hardest to show him why this, why what I'm telling him, is so important. I take a deep breath; drop my eyes down to the paper in my hands.

"Spike—"

"No," he says again, more forcefully this time.

I drag my gaze back to his. He isn't looking at me now.

His hands are still shaking, body almost vibrating with tension. I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking, the way it does when he's fighting for control.

I chance a step closer to him.

"It might be the only way to stop them," I murmur, gesturing with the papers. I'm trying to keep my voice calm, as soothing as possible. "To stop this."

"I won't do it."

"You may not nee to," I say, reaching out, wrapping my hand around his arm. "But we have to be ready to do-"

Spike lets out a wild roar, rips his arm out of my grasp. I watch as he spins around, hooks both hands underneath the big coffee table and lifts it up, sends it hurling with a loud crash into the cement wall, shattering it into pieces.

He whips back toward me. I gasp, stepping back.

"Not layin' a finger on you," he growls, eyes raging. "And that'sfinal."

My eyes fill with tears. Hot, stinging tears, and I can't blink them away before they start to escape down my cheeks. They aren't normal tears, not tears of sadness. They're tears of rage.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't see why this is killing me, why I'm so desperate to find a way to keep it from happening.

Why I'd rather be dead than cause anyone else any more destruction, any more pain.

"Why?" I demand, stepping toward him, my own hands curling into fists at my sides.

Spike turns on me, lunging forward and grabbing me around my arms with enough force to make me wince.

"Because I'm inlovewith you!" He shouts, shaking me.

I gasp, a sharp inhale. Everything goes completely still.

My eyes go wide. Spike looks about as shocked as I am.

Love. In love with me.

Is that what he'd said?

We stare at each other for a long moment. Neither of us moves, neither of us speaks. I feel like I'm barely breathing.

In love with me.I know it's what he'd said, what I'd heard. It's the echo of the thought I'd let myself have earlier, in his arms, curled up on the cement floor. Earlier. Before Holland. Before Dad.

Before the prophecy.

God, it feels like a million years ago now.

"I-in love…" I trail off, shaking my head, unable to finish the question. The statement. Whatever it was going to be.

I close my eyes, try to think. It's hard with him this close to me, the connection between us humming in his touch. I can't wrap my head around it. Love. No one's ever said the words to me before. No one I've dated, I'd never had a boyfriend long term enough, serious enough, to even think about saying the words. And Spike...he's soulless. A demon. He can't understand feelings, not the way that I do. You can't love without a soul.

So he doesn't...hecan't…

I force myself to meet his eyes, and everything I think, everything I understand about what and how he feels flies out the window.

Can he?

Spike keeps his eyes locked on mine, chest heaving as his fingers wrap more firmly around my arms. "I love you," he murmurs quietly, almost like he's testing it out.

Hearing it again, out loud. It's enough to make my head spin.

But hearing himself say it, it only seems to make it more true.

Spike grips me tighter, pulls me closer to him. Closer still, until our foreheads are almost touching. His stormy eyes search mine.

"Iloveyou."

He says it so softly, so quietly and with so much earnestness that I swear my heart breaks a little in my chest. And I believe him. Whether it's true or not, whether it's just an echo of the real emotion that he's feeling and not true, genuine love doesn't matter. He believes it.

And I believe him.

My first instinct is to say it back. The second is to push him away from me.

I don't do either.

Instead, softly, echoing his tone, I repeat the words. "You love me."

Spike takes a deep, unneeded breath in, exhales slowly.

"Don't know when," he murmurs, almost to himself, ghosting his hands up from my arms to cup my face. He shakes his head. "Don't even rightly knowhow. But I love-"

My chest tightens, and I close my eyes. Inhaling sharply, I breathe, "Spike."

"You don't need to say it back, sweet," He whispers, threading his fingers back into my hair.

But he's misunderstood my reaction. It isn't that I don't want to say it back. It isn't that I'm not ready, or even that I can't admit it.

I can, I realize, standing here with him. Feeling him in front of me, his cool hands on my flushed skin. I can admit.

That I love him.

That isn't the problem.

I can't let myself say it now. Not now, not when everything might be falling apart. Not when I've just asked him to kill me if the prophecy turns out to be true.

How cruel, how unfair, would that be?

I won't do it.

I open my eyes again, blinking, and bring my hands up to cover Spike's.

"If you mean that," I say, refusing to repeat the words a second time, "then you'll do what I've asked."

Spike pulls his hands out of mine, leans back away from me. It's clear, so car, from the look in his eyes now that it isn't what he'd expected me to say. To demand.

He blinks at me, shaking his head. He turns away from me and takes a few steps toward the door, turns around and walks back. I watch as he repeats the movement several more times, biting down on my bottom lip. His hands come up, shaking slightly, and he runs them through his hair. Mussing it, freeing whatever curls were still gelled down.

He turns to face me, shaking his head. "I can't."

"I'm only asking you to do it if it's true," I mumble, feeling my eyes start to sting again. "Only if."

If. I'm clinging to the word like it's a lifeline.

Because it is. Right now, it's the only one I have.

"Right," he snarls at me, "because that makes it so much bloody better."

Anger flares, hot and heavy, in my chest.

My eyes flash.

"You say you won't do it. That you can't do it. You. Well, what about me, Spike? I can't be the reason. I can't...bring the apocalypse. End the world." I look down, my stomach churning as I say it out loud. "Be the reason all those people…"

Spike is there in an instant, gathering me into his arms again. He presses soft, urgent kisses into my hairline, across my forehead, all the while shushing me, murmuring soothing little sounds.

"Can't help it," he murmurs, the words muffled, spoken into the crown of my head. I'm not even sure he means for me to hear them. "Right selfish bastard."

After a minute, Spike pulls away from me, his eyes focused on the ground at my feet. He still has both arms wound around me, rubbing little circles into my back.

It's silent between us for a moment, the weight of everything, everything we've discovered, everything we have and haven't admitted, everything we might still have to face, hangs between us.

When he finally drags his gaze up to mine, I feel the air catch in my lungs.

Spike's eyes are shining, wet, and the most incredible midnight blue.

I've never seen them this color before.

"Is this what it feels like?" He asks me, voice coming out thick. At the look of confusion on my face, he continues on. "To be sorry and mean it?"

It's the closest thing to an answer I'm going to get from him on this, and I know it.

I reach up and cup his face in my hands, leaning my forehead down so it's pressing lightly against his.

I want to tell him thank you, but I don't know how that will go over right now. Maybe not acknowledging what's just occurred between us is the safest route for now. Until we can get out, until we can get the prophecy in the hands of someone who can really read it…

Richard. Mom's Watcher.

I'd almost forgotten about him. In all the confusion, the chaos here with Spike, I'd forgotten the reason for the Big If in the first place.

The thought makes a small kernel of hope bubble up in my chest, loosening the knot in my stomach the tiniest bit.

"It might not mean that, anyway," I remind Spike of the iffines I've just remembered, hoping to lighten the mood. "You said yourself, your Latin is all with the rusty."

He nods against me, squeezing me more tightly. "That it is." Then he chuckles, sending a little vibration into my lips, a small tingle down my spine. "Rubbish, really."

The sound, the gentle purr, makes my muscles relax a little. The tension in his body releasing causes the same in mine.

I wonder if that's part of it, the connection, between us.

Or maybe it's something else.

"I love you."

"We'll just take all his one thing at a time," I murmur against him, "starting with finding Dad, finding a way out of here."

As if on cue, we hear the grounding of the metal door unlocking, clicking open. We turn toward it as it slides open. The three guards from before are back, no sign this time of Lindsey or of Holland.

I'm not surprised.

"Miss Summers," the tall black man in the middle addresses me; the one who'd carried the stake earlier. "Your father is awake. I can take you to him now."

I drop my hands from Spike's face, stepping back a little ways from him.

"Where is he?" I ask, knowing even as the words leave my lips that I probably won't get a straight answer.

The guard squares his shoulders, folding his arms over his chest. He inclines his head toward the hallway. "If you'll just follow me."

Of course.

"What about Spike?" I ask, remembering what had happened, been about to happen, when I came back here the last time I willingly followed someone out.

"The vampire stays here," he says coolly, casting a wary glance at the vampire in question beside me. "House rules."

I raise my eyebrows at him, instinctively taking a step forward.

Spike reaches for me, laying a hand on my forearm and squeezing, directing me to look back at him.

"I'll be fine, luv," he murmurs, the words low enough to be for my ears only, "you go. Find a way to get us the bloody hell out of here."

I nod, giving my vampire a meaningful look, then turn back to face the imposing figure in the doorway.

"Okay then," I say, walking toward him. "Lead the way."

The guard, whose name I find out through a lot of inane questioning is Gunn, is actually friendly enough. He chats idly with me about the weather as he leads me back up to the main level, the same way we'd come earlier, but instead of heading for the elevator he leads me straight into a little corner conference room.

The first thing I see is my dad, fully awake, standing on the opposite side of the big corner room. He's leaning slightly onto the table's edge for support, but his eyes unmistakably light up when he sees me.

The same rush of hope I'd felt before, in the basement, floods my chest.

"I'll give you two some privacy," Gunn says, promptly closing the door behind him. I'm too happy to see Dad, awake and alert, to notice or care why he'd willingly leave us alone.

"Dad," I say, running to him, wrapping my arms as gently as I can around him.

I still don't know how much damage they've done. That, coupled with my rapidly growing strength, has me a little nervous.

But he hugs me back, surprisingly tightly, and we stand there just like that for a long while. I'm so grateful to see him, so grateful he seems to be okay, that for a minute it's easy to forget all the prophecy girl, impending doom, apocalypse now crap we've been dealing with since we got here.

When we finally pull apart, he keeps one hand on my arm, running the other over my hair. It's a familiar gesture, the same he always used to do when I was little.

"God, Buffy," he murmurs, eyes shining, "I was so worried." He stares at my face a minute longer, then his expression darkens. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

I shake my head. "No, I'm fine."

It's still not true, still has the same hollow ring to it as before, but if Dad sees through it he doesn't mention anything.

I search his face, looking around for the bruising I'd seen earlier. It still there, still looks pretty nasty, but he looks a million and one times better just being conscious than he had before.

"What did they do to you?" I ask, tenderly touching my fingertips to the bruise beneath his eye. When his eyes fill with tears, I pull my hand back, panicking that I've hurt him.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, running his hand over my hair again. "This is all my fault. If I'd just told you, if you'd known what to watch out for."

Oh.

I shake my head, offering him a small smile. "Dad, it's okay."

"No, it isn't. They have you because of me. Because I-"

I really wish everyone would stop blaming themselves for this situation and just focus on getting us out of out.

"We can be all with the hashing out later," I tell him, dropping my voice down low. I cast a glance over my shoulder, back to the door. It's quiet on the other side. I turn back to Dad. "I don't know how much time we have and right now, we need to focus on finding a way out of here."

His brow furrows. "A way out?"

He says it too loudly. I immediately shush him, and then feel silly for doing it. His eyes go wide and he puts his hands out as if to tell me he understands. I move closer to him, pushing both our bodies further into the room, away from the door.

"Where are they keeping you?" I ask, voice quiet. "Do you know?"

Dad nods. "Somewhere on this floor, I'm sure," he murmurs, making his tone match mine. "We didn't go down any stairs, and we didn't take any elevators."

On this floor. That's good. Something to go on. I rack my brain, thinking of how many doors I'd seen going down this hallway. Six, maybe seven, not including the conference room we're standing in now.

"Okay," I murmur, thinking out loud, "Okay. Is this the ground floor?"

"No," Dad shakes his head slowly, like he's thinking out loud, too. Remembering something from a long time ago. He drops his eyes down. "Ground floor is one below." Then up to mine again. "Lobby level."

The way he says it, it reminds me. What Holland told me. Dad used to work for Wolfram and Hart. Here, in New York, for their Special Projects division.

This building.

I do the math. If this is the first floor, Spike and I are three floors down, so that makes us two floors below ground.

"Does there happen to be a door on the lobby level?" I ask him, wrinkling my nose up. "Maybe one that's blissfully unlocked and unguarded?"

Dad looks at me, his expression somber. "You'll never make it out the front."

Of course not.

The answer isn't a surprise, but it's discouraging anyway.

"Kinda figured as much," I mumble, groaning. "Worth a shot."

I take a deep breath, biting down on my lower lip, casting a glance around the room. More for something to do than really looking.

Then it occurs to me.

I turn back to Dad, whispering tensely, "Is there another way out?"

A place like Wolfram and Hart, there has to be more than one way in or out. Right?

But Dad's eyes have gone wide, fearful. Bruised, swollen features suddenly full of anxiety.

"Buffy, please, it's too danger-"

"We're getting out of here," I cut him off, tone hard, expression serious.

Dad just shakes his head.

"You don't know," he whispers, putting his hands on my shoulders, "These People. Wolfram and Hart, what they're capable of." He squeezes me, and the fear and anxiety I see in his face is enough to make my blood freeze. "You can't know what you're up against."

His words are meant to scare me. To make me feel the gravity of the situation we're in, how dangerous these people really are.

And they do.

But not as much as the thought of letting Wolfram and Hart use the people I love to manipulate me. Letting them use me. As their tool. Their weapon. Some instrument to bring around the end of days, some... "unstoppable" force for God knows what kind of evil.

Nothing scares me more than that.

I steel my gaze as I look back at my Dad now, setting my jaw. More determined now, now that I've seen the fear in my own father's eyes, than I had been before.

I want to get myself away from here, yeah. But I want to get him somewhere safe even more.

"We are getting out of here," I repeat the words again, still quietly but more forcefully than before. I squeeze his hands on my shoulders and bring them down between us. "Now tell me," I whisper, "Is there another way out?"

Dad opens his mouth again like he's about to argue with me, but stops when he sees the expression on my face. He closes his mouth, leaning slightly away from me. The corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly.

It's a little jarring, his expression. The genuine smile, the twinkling in his eyes despite the bruising that surrounds them.

My brow furrows.

"What is it?" I ask him.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. Then he pauses thoughtfully, smiles again. "You just reminded me so much of your mom just then."

The smile that splits my face is wide, and genuine. It's the first direct comparison my dad has ever made between my mom and me. Before now, the only other thing I'd heard about her, about me being like her, was from Spike. About our fighting style.

It feels good. To know that there's at least a piece of her in me.

"Is there another way out?" I ask again, the ghost of a smile still on my lips.

Dad nods, his demeanor almost entirely different now.

"Two emergency exits," he tells me, casting a glance over my shoulder, back toward the closed door. "One on the third floor, one in the lobby. Secret doors hidden in the supply closets that lead out to the sewers, in case of full building shut down." Then he pauses, frowning. "That is, unless they've moved them…" he trails off, looking at me with wide eyes. "It's been a long time."

He's right. Anything he knew about this building, it's been eighteen years since he's worked here. The layout, the offices, everything. Everything could be different now.

Still. It's the best lead we have.

The only lead.

"We'll just have to risk it."I squeeze his hands once more before letting them go.

Dad frowns; looking around me again, to where I assume Gunn is still standing behind the door. "What about the guards?" He asks dubiously.

I feel my fingers itch, the familiar stirring in my veins I'm beginning to feel so connected with. My hands curl into fists.

"Don't worry about the guards," I murmur, looking off past Dad's shoulder. "Spike and I can-"

"Spike?"

My eyes whip back to his. They're wide, incredulous.

I realize there's a lot...a whole heck of a lot...I'm going to have to explain.

"Err," I mutter, racking my brain for the simplest explanation, "umm, William?"

So maybe that wasn't the simplest explanation.

"William?" Dad repeats, then his eyes widen with understanding. "The man you've been-"

"Dad." I cut him off in a rush, smiling weakly. "Time? Not a lot of it. And Spike's a long story." I swear I feel the pulse point on my wrist throb in time with the mark on my neck as I think about him, my blood burning hotter. I close my eyes. "A very long story. One I'd rather fill you in on once we're, ya know," I open them again, "no longer inside the evil law firm."

"Even if we do get out of here Buffy," Dad puts his hands up, palms out in surrender at the look on my face, "I'm only saying...where do you plan on going?"

"Somewhere safe," I tell him simply. It's all I'm thinking about right now. "We need to get you somewhere safe. We—"

I'm cut off by a knock on the door, and panic suddenly grips my chest. The rest of the words tumble passed my lips in a rush. "We have a copy of the prophecy, the one Holland told you about, back when I was little?" I turn back to look at the door, then back to Dad quickly. His eyes are very wide. "Spike thinks he knows someone who can help us read it. We just have to—"

I'm cut off again, this time by the sound of the door creaking open behind me.

I turn around at the noise.

"Miss Summers," its Gunn, poking his head into the room. "I need to take you back downstairs now."

I nod at him, turn back around to face Dad. His eyes are searching mine, wide, frantic. There's something in them, something he's trying to tell me, but there's no chance now.

I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze, as tightly as I dare to, and whisper into his ear, "Be ready."

Then, giving him one last meaningful look, I turn and follow Gunn out of the room.

"Nice visit?" Gunn asks me as we walk back down the stairs.

I shift my eyes warily over to him. "The nicest."

He hasn't given me any great reason to distrust him. Not yet, anyway. I mean besides working for Wolfram and Hart. Still, I catch myself on guard around him.

"You hungry?" He asks me suddenly, pretty much out of the blue.

I look over at him, frowning.

I haven't really thought about it. Not since my little chat with Holland. I am and I'm not. Still, probably best to try and eat something now.

I'll need it.

"I guess," I murmur, hands going instinctively to my stomach.

Truthfully, food's been sort of the last thing on my mind. What with the impending doomsday and me being the cause of it.

"They brought food down a bit ago," Gunn tells me as we round the second stair landing, heading toward the big double doors. "It'll be waiting for you."

It's good to know, but I'm not worried about me.

"What about blood?" I ask.

Gunn shifts his eyes to me, raises an eyebrow as we step through the double doors, out into the too-bright hallway. "What about it?"

"For Spike," I explain, stepping in line behind him. "Has he been given any blood?"

He tosses a wary glance over his shoulder at me, gives me a half nod before turning to face forward again.

"Someone was supposed to feed the vampire."

I frown.

The way he says it is wiggy. I sort of get the feeling they might be talking straight from the tap.

Still, I can't bring myself to be too bothered by it. Even if…

No. I can't think about that right now. There's too much else, too many other things going on, fighting for space in my already short circuiting brain.

Spike needs his strength.

I cast another glance toward Gunn, his imposing frame, muscular arms. I think about all the other guards here, the ones that have to be scattered all throughout the building, and grimace.

We both do.

I'm more than a little relieved when Gunn punches the code into the keypad and the metal door slides open to reveal Spike standing in the room, alone this time. No stakes, no syringes. He isn't vamped out, either. Whatever, whoever, they brought down to feed him...it must have been a while ago.

I notice the plate of food, sitting on top of the bedspread on the foot of the bed, the second I step through the door. I can't tell exactly what is from here, but it smells incredible. I realize the last thing I had to eat was a handful of grapes and half a strawberry back in the hotel room in Cleveland.

My stomach rumbles loudly.

Gunn leaves without saying another word, the heavy door clicking back into place the only notice I have that he's left at all.

Things feel awkward at first. I don't know why exactly. I guess it could be a couple things. Him with the I love yous, me with the not saying it back.

Or, you know, the whole I need you to kill me to save the world scenario. It could be that, too.

"Eat something, sweet," Spike says after a moment, dropping down onto the bed beside the plate.

He doesn't have to tell me twice.

I cross the room quickly, diving into the food with abandon. By the time I stop to register what it is I'm eating, I've already all but finished everything on the plate. When I look up at Spike, he's smirking down at me. I swallow the big bite of food that I still have in my mouth.

"Impressive, that," he teases, nodding at the almost empty plate. He looks down at my stomach; dark lashes sweeping slowly back up to my face. "Have to wonder where you put it."

I glance down at the plate again. It's the most I'm sure he's ever seen me eat.

I blush, my cheeks turning what I'm sure is a brilliant shade of red. I can feel the heat rolling off me.

Spike's features soften immediately, the smirk curving into more a genuine smile.

"God, I love it when you do that," he murmurs, his hand automatically reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair out of my face, his thumb trailing over the blushing edge of my cheekbone.

I blink at him.

It's the way he says it. Love. Different now, even if he isn't saying exactly what I think he means to. His words from earlier echo in my mind.

"Because I'm in love with you."

Everything feels different now. Whether it's a good or bad, I don't know.

I don't have the luxury of thinking too deeply about it right now.

I clear my throat, drop my eyes down and push the plate away from me.

"Okay, so we know I've eaten," I say softly, looking back up at him. "How about you?"

The question holds tension in it that I don't mean for it to.

I guess there isn't any way around that.

Beside me, Spike tenses a little. But then he nods, and I watch the smile slip from his face. "I ate."

Good. It's the only thing I let myself think.

"Are you ready to do this?" I ask.

His eyes widen slightly, leaning a little closer to me. "Did you find a way out?"

"Not exactly."

Spike's brow furrows, eyes darkening with confusion.

"Not...exactly," he repeats. "Wanna fill a bloke in?"

"Dad. Used to work here," I say, then turn a curious gaze up into his face. "Did you know that?" Spike answers me with a sardonic eyebrow raise.

I sigh.

"Of course you did." I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. "Anyway, he said there used to be these emergency exit thingies-"

"Used to be?" Spike cuts me off, incredulous. He blinks at me. "As in, not any more?"

I bite down on my bottom lip, shrugging sheepishly. "That's the 'not exactly' part."

My vampire nods slowly, then purses his lips. "I see."

He's got that "this is a bloody stupid idea" look on his face again. The same he'd given me earlier, when I'd first told him about the plan.

"Well, there's two of them," I continue on quickly, not ready for him to start poking holes just yet. "One's supposedly in a supply closet in the lobby, and it leads down into the sewers." I push myself to a standing position, pacing off in the direction of the door, then turn back around to face him. I fold my arms over my chest. "If it's still there, I figure it's our best bet."

Spike looks at me for a minute, studying my face. Then he copies me, pushes himself up off the mattress and begins walking toward me.

"So...we nab your pap, from whatever room they've hidden him away in. Make it out into the lobby and what," he folds his arms over his chest, mimicking me, "cross our fingers that this sewer exit's still there before we get caught and bloody cut to ribbons by the guards?"

Well, when you say it like that.

I square my shoulders, tightening my arms across my chest.

"Pretty much," I say, nodding. There's a short pause. Then, "Minus the whole...cut to ribbons thing. Thinking they kind of need me alive."

Spike barks a short laugh, raising both eyebrows at me. "Need you alive, yeah."

His words chasten me immediately, but I don't back down. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we get to mom's Watcher. Get him the prophecy.

And we get answers.

Once and for all.

"Are you in?" I ask, tilting my chin up.

Spike looks at me a little like I've sprouted two heads. "You jokin'?" He asks, and I watch as the ghost of his wicked signature smirk curves his lips. "Course I'm in."

I smile at my vampire, a little of my own smirk ghosting back at him.

"Good," I tell him, dropping my hands away from my chest. "Because the next time that door opens," I cast a glance over my shoulder, toward the metal slab blocking the doorway, "we're leaving."


	26. Chapter 24

"Will you please stop that," Spike asks me from his position, seated in one of the large leather chairs, "you're makin' me dizzy."

I cast a glance in his direction, half apologetic and half glaring. I've been pacing for what feels like hours. Folding and unfolding my arms over my chest, running my hands through my hair, practically chewing a hole through my bottom lip.

As the time's passed, I've started to feel more and more anxious. The reality of the situation, the plan that's not a plan, the emergency exit that might not exist…I'm starting to feel a whole lot of things.

Confident isn't at the top of the list.

I stop pacing, turn toward Spike. "Let's run through it again."

He gives me a knowing and a little exasperated look.

I've been asking him to go through the plan again for what feels like hours, too.

"You're goin' to make yourself sick, pet," he says in what I've realized is his soothing voice. It's sort of a mix between a sensual purr and a gentle murmur. "Calm down."

I blink at him with wide eyes.

"I'm calm," I tell him, sounding anything but. "Who's not calm? I'm way calm."

Spike smirks at me, quirking an eyebrow.

I grimace.

"Everything's goin' to be fine, pet."

I scoff, turning on my heel to begin pacing again. "Yeah. This coming from mister 'bloody hell, luv, that's the worst plan I've ever bloody heard'."

I turn back to him and he's staring at me again, his scarred eyebrow raised sky high.

"We need to have a chat about what we English actually sound like." He shifts on the mattress, putting his hands behind him and leaning back. "And I never said that."

Except he kind of did. Maybe not in so many words, but it wasn't like he'd made a secret about not being overly thrilled with the plan from the get go. I'm not sure why it bothers me so much, why I feel like I need him to tell me this will work.

Probably because I'm not sure it will.

But he's right. All this worrying, pacing around, I'm starting to make myself dizzy. And what good does worrying do us now? Either we try and make a break for it, or we don't. Either we try to get Dad somewhere safe, or we don't.

Either we try and get the prophecy to someone who can read it, who can tell us if it's even real, or we don't.

There don't seem to be a whole lot of options.

I stop pacing again, face Spike and cross my arms again. He looks at me knowingly.

I sigh.

"Can we just go over it one more time?"

"We've gone over it enough," Spike tells me, sitting up, leaning his forearms over his thighs as he looks at me. "There innit much to go over."

And it's there again, in his voice. The tiniest edge to his tone that's all read between the line-ish. The thing that sets all the warning bells off in my head.

"See?" I say, pointing a finger at him. "That right there. That's what's making me so nervous."

Spike furrows his brow, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"There isn't much to go over," I murmur, imitating him with a little bob of my head.

Spike rolls his eyes.

"Oh, for…" He sighs, pushing himself up to his feet and stalking toward me.

I'm expecting him to grab me, wrap his hands around my arms like he usually does when he's frustrated with me. But he doesn't. He just stands there in front of me, indigo eyes searching my face.

"Look, you silly bint," he says, and his voice is back to the soothing tone from before. "'S not the best bloody plan I've ever heard, but that doesn't matter. We can't really be choosy, yeah?"

Because that makes me feel much better.

I eye him, tilting my head to the side.

"Wow," I mutter sarcastically, "You're a regular Tony Robbins."

Spike gives me a sort of deadpan look, crosses his arms over his chest.

"What I'm sayin' is I'm not worried."

Oh.

That hadn't been what it sounded like.

"That makes one of us," I mumble, dropping my eyes down to the floor.

There's a brief pause between us. Then, Spike takes a step back from me.

"Alright, what happened?" He asks, voice gone from soothing to almost angry in one breath.

I turn my eyes back up to his, frowning at the frustrated expression on his face.

I shake my head.

"What do you mean what happened?"

Spike scoffs, exhaling a short puff of air out through his nose.

"What I mean," he draws the word out, pointing a finger over toward the door, "is that not even an hour ago you were ready to storm the bloody castle, all consequences be damned. And now—"

"Now I've had time to think about it," I tell him, matching my tone of voice to his.

Spike folds the arm he'd used to gesture toward the door back over his chest, considers me, pursing his lips.

"Thinkin'." He tsks his tongue, cocking his head to the side, "Never useful, that."

I try my best to glare at him but it falls flat, turning into more of a weak grimace.

I turn my eyes back down to the ground.

"What if Dad was wrong?" I ask quietly, giving voice to the fear that's plagued me since first coming back down here. "About that emergency exit."

I feel rather than see Spike shrug, practically hear the gesture in his voice.

"Then we adjust."

It's my turn to scoff.

I look back up at him.

"We adjust…" I murmur, nodding my head. "And does that 'adjustment' account for the plan totally failing and me getting you both killed?"

Spike's expression softens instantly, his eyes widening in understanding.

And he does reach for me now. Reaches out to wrap his arm around my waist, tug me against him.

I don't let him.

I don't need to be pat on the head right now. Don't want to be soothed, or told that everything's going to be all right.

"Don't," I say, spinning out of his grip, taking a couple steps out of his reach.

He doesn't come after me, but it's there on his face. I've hurt him.

My insides twist a little, and I close my eyes, taking a deep breath in and exhaling slowly before I open my eyes again.

I don't apologize, but I try and soften my features a little.

"I just…" I trail off, biting into my lip, searching for the right words. How to explain to him what I'm thinking, why I'm scared. "I've been so focused on getting Dad out of here," I pause, meeting his eyes again, "on getting you out of here, that I haven't really considered…" I trail off again, glancing around the room and let out a short, humorless laugh. "Look, if anything goes wrong out there, it'll be my fault."

Spike's eyes darken. "Bollocks."

I shake my head at him. "Spike, don't—"

"Bollocks." He says again, more forcefully this time.

I give him an exasperated look, but I can see it on his face that he's had enough of this. He crosses to me, reaching a hand out toward my face.

As soon as he does, I turn my cheek away from him.

"Hey," he says, cupping his hand underneath my chin and turning my face back toward his.

And he sounds so sincere. Sincere and intense with just the slightest hint of anger when he asks me to look at him.

So I do.

I almost immediately wish I hadn't, because what I see is overwhelming.

"You can't keep doin' this to yourself," Spike murmurs, studying me with a fierceness that makes my breath catch in my lungs. "Putting the weight of the entire buggering planet on your shoulders. 'S a good way to drive yourself crazy, that." He lets go of my chin and moves his hand to my shoulder, his voice dropping lower. Hypnotic. "I don't know if everything'll be fine. Can't make you any promises. So you have to tell me…are you gonna be ready when that door opens?" My eyes go wide at the thought of it, and Spike moves on quickly before I can respond. "If you need more time, just say the word. You wanna sodding chat this out a thousand more times, we'll do it."

He pauses, unfathomable eyes searching mine. Then his hand slides over from my shoulder, up to my neck, until his fingers are twined in my hair. His thumb brushes the tender point on my cheek just in front of my ear.

He takes a deep breath.

"But the facts aren't goin' to change, luv," he murmurs on the exhale, voice dropping lower still. "No matter how many times we run through this plan of yours, Wolfram and Hart is still goin' to plan on usin' you. We're still gonna be stuck here in the belly of the beast. We're still only goin' to have one real lead on a way out."

I stare at him, blinking dumbly. Unable to look away, mesmerized. Completely and wholly taken in by him, by what he's saying to me.

I feel the way he's looking at me in every nerve on my body.

I needed this.

I needed him to tell me to suck it up. To do what needs to be done. Not that the plan is a good one, or that he knows it'll work, or even that he isn't worried. I wanted him to tell me that none of that matters, because it's this plan, this crappy, half-assed, wildest of the wild leaps of faith plan is the only option we have.

Besides that, I suddenly have this overwhelming feeling that this little not-a-plan of mine is going to work.

"So," Spike says finally, eyes blazing in contradiction to the softness of his voice, "Are you ready, or not?"

The words as I'll ever be are the first to spring to mind.

But that isn't what I say.

Instead, I nod, straightening my back. "I'm ready."

"Good," Spike murmurs, slowly removing his hand from my face, brushing the pad of his thumb once more over my cheek as he does.

Then he turns away from me to face the imposing doorway, rolling his shoulders back and leaning his head to the side, stretching his neck.

"Because that door's about to open."

I whip my head toward him, eyes going wide all over again.

"How do you—"

Spike taps his ear meaningfully, but doesn't look at me. He keeps his eyes riveted on the door. I turn toward it, too, waiting for the tell tale shuddering sound of the lock sliding back. The eerie clicking sound I've come in such a short time to associate with badness.

It's only been about 12 hours total, maybe 24 at most.

"Buffy," Spike says, and I barely hear him, he's speaking so softly now. I turn my face toward him, frowning. A small smile curves the corner of his lip, but he still doesn't look at me. "I love you."

I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. My heart skips a beat, constricts in my chest.

And then the door starts to groan.

I start to panic all over again, but not for the same reasons as before. Am I making a mistake, not telling him? Isn't this usually when the confessions happen? Before facing odds that are pretty much the definition of insurmountable.

Am I breaking some cardinal rule if I don't say it now?

And oh, God, what if this is a mistake? What if something goes wrong? If I never get the chance to say it. To say all the things I want to.

My lips start to move before my brain finishes thinking through it.

"Spike, I-"

"Save it," he tells me, cutting me off mid-sentence. His eyes shift toward mine, and I swear they're twinkling. "Save it for after."

But what if there is no after?

I don't have time to unpack that thought, because the sound of metal scraping on cement fills the vault-like room a second later, the door sliding open to reveal Gunn, again in the center, flanked by the same two big guards from before.

Here goes nothing.

The three guards must sense something is different right off the bat, because all three of them reach back, I'm guessing into their pockets.

I'm also guessing that what they're reaching for are weapons.

And before I have a chance to think about what the first steps of the plan are, Spike takes off. Like a shot, quicker than I've ever seen anyone, anything, move. Ever. He runs straight into the guard on the left hand side of Gunn, a stockier looking guy with cropped, brown hair, and tackles him to the ground.

This isn't right.

It's the only thought my scattered brain can make sense of as I watch. This isn't the plan. Not the way we'd talked about it.

I don't have a chance to really think about what we have talked about, though, because Gunn's pulling a stake out of his pocket and turning to the struggling pair on the ground.

I react on instinct.

Taking off at a dead sprint, I cross the room in record time, colliding hard into the side of the larger man and sending us both flying back into the corridor wall. My hand shoots out, grabbing him around the wrist and twisting. Not hard. Not that hard. Just hard enough to maybe sprain it, make him drop the pointy wooden weapon. It clatters to the ground at my feet, and I step on it, trapping it underneath my shoe.

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it, then bring my elbow up, smashing it into the side of his jaw and sending his head careening back into the wall. His body goes limp beneath the pressure I'm putting on it, and I prop my hands underneath his arms and guide him gently down to the ground. He'll have a hell of a headache later, but I'm fairly sure I haven't done any serious damage.

I turn around just in time to see the third guard flying at me, crackling mini taser in hand. Quicker then I think possible, I whirl out of his reach and his fist slams into the wall, hard, his back now to me. I take the opportunity to use the trick Spike taught me. Spinning around, dropping down low and shooting my leg out to catch him at the ankles.

He crashes onto his back with a loud grunt, a thud, and I grab him around the throat, pressing him into the wall and holding him there.

He stares at me, his eyes wide. And I recognize them, the look he's giving me.

This is the same guard from before, in Holland's office. The one I'd grabbed around the neck in almost exactly this same way.

The one, I'm pretty certain, is afraid of me.

Good.

"Well, that was a giggle." Spike dusts himself off, steps up beside me. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing my new friend. "What about this one, then?"

"This one," I say, letting a falsely sweet smile split my face as I press him a little harder into the wall, "was just about to tell me where Dad is."

The guard looks at me, casts a cursory glance at Spike, over my shoulder, then back down again. "You know I can't tell you that."

Figured as much.

"Yeah?" I exert a little more pressure on his neck, grabbing for his hand, twisting his wrist around the same way I'd done Gunn's earlier. "I think you can."

I'm not sure what I think will be so convincing about it. I know I'm not twisting it with my full strength. I'm not even sure if I'm hurting him that much.

I'm not sure I'm ready to do that just yet.

It's one thing to fight the guards, to get them out of our way. Knocking them unconscious…it's necessary.

And even then, I hadn't really relished doing it to Gunn a moment ago. Using my strength to cause someone else pain, even if he does work for Wolfram and Hart…it feels ishy.

"You think a sprained wrist is going to make me turn on Wolfram and Hart?" the guard asks, setting his lips in a grim, half smile.

I frown at him.

I guess I shouldn't have worried.

Beside me, Spike laughs. It's a cold, cruel sound. The kind of laugh I haven't heard from him in what feels like forever.

It makes me shiver.

"Oh, I see," He murmurs, and then I hear it, the shifting of bone. I turn my eyes toward him, not surprised to see that he's vamped out.

He leers at the guard around his fangs.

"Listen friend, the lady here..." he pauses, casting an affectionate glance my way, "she's too soft and sweet to do any real damage. Me on the other hand? Well," he cocks his head to the side, "I live for that sort of thing."

There's a brief flash of panic over the man's face, which he quickly tries to cover.

"Go ahead," the guard sneers. "I'm not scared of blood suckers like you."

You'd think it was exactly the answer Spike had wanted to hear. He grins, folding his arms over his chest and leaning slightly forward.

"That a fact?" He asks, flicking the tip of his tongue out to slide over the pointed tip of one fang. He narrows his eyes, drops his voice to a low, dangerous rumble and says, "Maybe you should be."

I feel my shoulders tense up.

As reluctant as I am to hurt the guard myself, I'm not in a place where I'm ready to let Spike hurt him, either. I haven't reached that place yet.

Not yet.

I turn my eyes back to him, narrowing them, daring to twist his wrist just a little bit harder.

He winces.

"Just...tell me what I want to know," I say, clenching my jaw.

But his lips are clamped shut, and he doesn't make a move to answer me. If he was afraid of me before, he isn't now.

Either that, or he's more afraid of someone, or something, else.

"Buffy," Spike growls, a low warning in his chest. He glances up, seeing something that makes his eyes flash with urgency. "Don't have time for this, kitten."

I turn my head around, looking up toward where his eyes are focused, and I see it. Barely visible, blending almost seamlessly into the wall. A surveillance camera.

Of course.

I turn my gaze back to Spike, considering how much time we have. It probably isn't much. Assuming Wolfram and Hart have an entire surveillance room, cameras set up all over the building, then it's only a matter of time before—

The lights flicker, shuddering off, backup generators flicking on casting the entire hallway in a dim, iridescent light. A second later, the alarm sounds.

So, no time, then.

And suddenly, I've reached that place.

"Have at it," I say quickly to Spike, gesturing toward the guard with my hand, and stepping aside.

My vampire immediately steps in, gripping the guard by the front of his shirt and shaking him, slamming him hard enough into the wall to send plaster flying. Finn's eyes visibly widen with panic.

"Right then," Spike says breezily, fangs flashing. "The lady's father. Where is he?"

But the guard is still holding fast, trying to put on a brave face. "I can't tell—"

Spike growls, opening his mouth and lunging for the guard's throat. His fangs are mere centimeters away from breaking the skin when the guard cries out, wincing, shrinking farther back into the wall and as far away from the vampire as he can.

"Okay!" He shouts, squeezing his eyes shut. "Okay."

Not scared of bloodsuckers, huh?

Spike shifts back, closing his mouth and looking in all honesty a little on the disappointed side. He keeps his hands twisted tightly in the guard's t-shirt, though. Keeps him pressed back into the wall.

I fold my arms over my chest.

"Where is he?" I ask, more urgently this time, the alarm sounding in my ears and making my head pound.

The guard opens his eyes again, looking pointedly away from Spike's menacing glare and over toward me. "First floor, around the corner. Third set of doors on the right."

Only three sets of stairs and three sets of doors away.

"You're sure?" I ask, taking a step back, preparing to take off down the hallway toward the doors.

He opens his mouth to respond to me, but Spike's hand flies up to his throat, cutting him off before he can even begin to speak. "You better be more than sure, mate."

His eyes go comically wide as he sputters, nodding his head frantically. Spike grins again, yellow eyes narrowing to wicked slits. It's the first time I've ever seen him look so completely menacing. And then, quick as lightning, he's knocking him back into the wall, the same way I had with Gunn moments ago. The guard groans and goes limp, and Spike lets go of his throat, letting him drop to the ground in a heap.

We pause just long enough for a meaningful look, and then we take off, shooting down the hallway. Spike follows me through the double doors and up the three flights of stairs, out onto the first floor landing.

Directly into a wall of black-clad, armed guards.

There are six of them, it looks like. Two rows of three.

And behind them, from over their shoulders, I can see it. The corner, the one I need to get around in order to find the room Dad's locked in. The two of us stand there, side by side, staring at the wall of guards blocking our path.

My hands twitch.

I feel Spike vibrating beside me, tingling in my fingertips, down my spine. Like little electric shocks rolling off him. I can feel his anticipation, how ready he is for a fight. Can practically taste the blood lust burning in the back of my own throat.

I shift my eyes toward him, trying my hardest to convey what I'm thinking to him as quickly as I can. His eyes widen slightly.

And then I take off, diving straight for the gap I've spotted between two of the guards in the front line. I dodge several blows, weaving between their shoulders and spinning out of the big, meaty hands that reach for me. I clear the human blockade and make a break for the corner, rounding it more quickly than I could have thought.

The whole thing takes fifteen, maybe thirty seconds at most.

I guess preternatural strength isn't the only thing I'm sharing with Spike.

I scramble around the corner and scan the corridor, counting off the doors until I reach the third set on the right, immediately lunging forward and grabbing hold of the double set of door knobs and twisting, hard.

They don't budge.

Of course they don't.

Locked.

I whip my eyes back toward the direction I've just come from and see Spike, rounding the corner, simultaneously dodging blows from two different guards.

"It's locked!" I shout over the blaring of the alarm, hearing in my ears how stupid it sounds even as I say it.

I watch as Spike whirls around and lands a nasty sounding kick to the side of one guard's face. I watch as he flies back, slamming into the wall, slumping to the ground in an unconscious heap.

Seems to be happening a lot.

"Well then," Spike says matter-of-factly, hazarding a glance over his shoulder at me, "kick it in."

I frown, turning back to the wide, thick wooden doors in front of me. They're as tall as the ceiling, and look majorly solid.

Kick it in.

"Sure," I mutter sarcastically, "why didn't I think of that."

There's a loud noise from down the hall, and I turn and look just as four more armed guards come barreling into view.

Spike sees them at the same time I do.

He grabs hold of the guard he's been fighting and launches him into the air, straight into the gang of incoming men. He manages to knock three down, but a third dives around, skirting his collapsed comrades. He lunges, grabbing Spike by the lapels and shoving him back into another set of wooden doors.

I see the stake in his hand at almost the exact time as Spike does, and I shout a warning to him just as he ducks down quickly, narrowly avoiding it as the guard slams it down with enough force that it lodges in the doorframe.

"Any time you wanna get movin' here, pet." He growls out, jumping back to a full standing position. He aims a vicious head butt at the guard in front of him, sending the man staggering backward. "Fine by me."

Oh.

Right.

I turn back to the face the doors in front of me and, emboldened by the little display I've just seen, the sounds of Spike's fight going on behind me, I bend my knee up into my chest and kick out as hard as I can.

My heel comes down hard, directly over the set of doorknobs, and the big wooden doors split open with a loud cracking sound. The left side door smashes into the wall and ricochets back around, hanging limply.

The right side door comes off its hinges all together.

I stand there, blinking.

On the other side of the door, Dad's standing there, arms thrown over his head in a protective stance. I watch, still a little stunned, as he slowly lowers his arms and looks out at me. His eyes go from me, to the ruined wooden doors, to the scattered puffs of plaster on the floor, then back up to me.

"Whoa," he says, staring at me.

"Was kind of thinking that, yeah," I say back. Then, remembering what we're doing here, "Are you ready to go?"

He nods.

I'm about to step into the room when there's a loud scream from behind me. A blurry black mass comes careening over my shoulder and into the room, skidding over the conference table and landing with a thud on the ground.

A second later, Spike appears. He looks a little worse for wear, but I don't see anything to be immediately concerned about.

He leans his elbow against the broken doorframe, his chest heaving in and out.

"Hate to break up the party," he says, smirking at me, bringing his free hand up to wipe the trail of blood away from his nose, "but d'you lot think we could go ahead and get the bloody hell out of here?" He turns his eyes toward my dad, inclining his head. "Hank."

I look at Spike, then back to Dad who's staring a little on the blank side.

As of right now, there aren't any more guards coming down our hallway. But the alarm hasn't stopped ringing, and again, it's only a matter of time.

We still don't even know how to get to the lobby, let alone if that exit's still even there.

"Good idea," I say, stepping into the room and grabbing my dad by the arm.

The three of us step out into the hallway, glancing first to one side and then the other. We could go either way.

I look at Dad, dropping his arm.

"Which way?" I ask, shouting over the alarm.

"That way," he shouts back, pointing around Spike's shoulder to our left.

Just as a fresh wave of black-clad men come thundering around the corner.

Beside me, Spike groans. I hear him mutter under his breath, "Bloody perfect."

I reach for my dad again, grab him around the arm and yank him backward so that Spike and I form a shield in front of him.

"Stay behind me," I tell him forcefully, turning back around to face the incoming men.

Dad comes up beside me instantly, looking like he's about to protest when one of the guards reaches us, lunging for me. I smack his arm away with one hand, curl the other into a fist and smash it into the bridge of his nose. He flies back, literally leaves the ground, sailing over the heads of the other guards and landing several feet away.

Dad's mouth snaps shut and he steps back behind me.

I glance over at Spike. He winks at me.

Then he quickly ducks, dodging an uppercut I hadn't even seen coming. He kicks out automatically and connecting into the guard's chest just as I throw a jab, cross combination at the one now reaching for me.

My fingers are itching, aching slightly, but in a good way. A way that makes me want more. More of the burning in my veins that I'm beginning to recognize. The heady heat that steals through my muscles, lights my nerves on fire. The blood boiling tingliness I'm beginning to crave. Every time my fist connects with a jaw, or foot connects with a stomach, it spurs me onward. Flying blindly forward, spinning and weaving and dodging in near perfect time with the vampire beside me.

Until suddenly we're standing at the end of the hallway, black-clad bodies scattered all around us on either side.

I look over at Spike again, just as he's turning to look at me. His chest is heaving, eyes blazing. Bright and dark at the same time. He stares back at me, and I recognize the expression on his face.

Hunger.

And the pull I feel toward him is nearly overwhelming.

Until behind me, Dad says something. I shake my head and the haze surrounding me clears.

"What?" I ask, turning around to look at him.

"It's this way," he says, probably repeating himself as he ducks around me and heads for a set of doors I would have sworn wasn't there before.

This place is like a rat's maze.

The three of us burst through the doors, out into a long hallway. We run straight down this hallway, to a bank of elevators, through another set of doors, and out into yet another hallway.

I send up a silent thank you to whoever's listening that Dad's here. Otherwise, there's no way we'd ever find our way through all of this.

But this one is different. There are huge windows; nearly floor to ceiling, spilling dappled light all over a big, open lobby. There's an ornate tile pattern on the floor, and a wide, very pretty carpeted staircase leading down to it.

"Where's this closet, then?" Spike asks as the three of us come to a halt, looking out over the banister of the stair rail.

"It's over there," Dad says, pointing in the direction off to the side of a bank of elevators on the lobby floor. I follow the line of his finger and realize we can't get to where he's pointing unless we go through sunlight.

A lot of sunlight.

The entire lobby is bathed in it, from one end to the other.

I turn wide, panicked eyes toward Spike. He looks back at me.

"I'll be fine, luv," he says quietly.

"Okay," I say, turning back to Dad. "Let's go."

The doors crash open behind us, and the three of us whip our heads toward the sound simultaneously in time to see several more guards filing in through the direction we've just come.

Straight for us.

"Yeah, let's," Spike agrees, grabbing for my hand. We lunge for the staircase, practically tripping over each other as we run down toward the tiled floor. Once we reach it, Spike comes to a screeching halt, his feet inches away from the first rays of sunlight.

I stop with him, tell Dad to keep running. I turn back toward my vampire, watching as he struggles to pull his duster off. I realize what he's doing and immediately reach to help him, yanking it off his arms, helping him pull it up over his head.

"Come on!" Dad shouts, and I look up to see him waving us forward. I look back to Spike, making sure he's fully covered. He nods at me, and we take off again, running full tilt into the sunlight, barreling toward the door my dad's already pulling open.

And then it happens. I hear it before I see it, the zipping sound, whirring just inches past my ear, through the leather of Spike's coat and lodging in his back.

An arrow.

A wooden arrow.

Fear. Gripping, ice cold panic floods my chest, cooling the fire that's been burning in my veins as I stare at him, waiting for the keening sound, for Spike to evaporate into dust beside.

But he doesn't.

The duster, I realize. Spike's holding it over his head, out a little ways from his body to block the sun from his face.

The position's stopped the arrow from going through to his heart.

It doesn't mean it's stopped it from hitting him at all.

He roars, staggering forward and I immediately reach for him, looping my arm around his waist to keep him upright. I twist my head around, looking for the source. There, standing on the top of the staircase and looking down at me with cold eyes is Holland, crossbow in hand.

He's holding it at his side. Not aiming it again.

I don't know why.

I don't care.

I turn back toward my Dad and, dragging Spike beside me, launch both of us forward, out of the sunlight and into the safety of the closet interior. We fall to the ground in a heap, and Dad slams the door shut behind us, twists the little flimsy little doorknob lock closed.

"Don't think that'll hold 'em, mate," Spike says breathily, wincing as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. I sit up, too, my eyes locked on my vampire's face.

I don't know why I think that any second I'll see him explode into little pieces.

"It doesn't have to hold them." Dad's not looking at either of us as he speaks. He's frantically searching, knocking down rolls of toilet paper and paper towels and all sorts of cleaning equipment as he searches for something. "At least, not long. Just until I can find it."

I reluctantly drag my eyes away from Spike, over to my dad.

"Find what?" I ask, voice shaking as I try and catch my breath.

There's a pause, the only sounds in the room are our breathing, mingling distantly with the shouts from behind the other side of the door. It's all echoing, too loud in my ears.

My eyes go back to Spike. He looks paler than normal.

"This," Dad says suddenly, drawing my eyes back to him as he reaches behind a stack of old waste baskets and pulls on a little lever.

It looks just like part of the shelving system.

You'd never be able to see it if you didn't know it was there.

There's a little creaking sound, and I watch as a piece of the wall breaks apart, shifts backward, opening up into what looks like a little dark tunnel.

"Right then," Spike says, and our eyes meet again. He smiles at me weakly. "Not so bloody terrible after all."

I hurriedly shove myself to my feet, turning around and offering my hand down to him. He takes it, wincing again as the effort of getting to his feet makes the arrow shift deeper into his back.

Panic grips me again.

"Spike," I say, automatically reaching for him. But he shakes his head, putting his hand out in a stopping motion.

"I'm fine, Buffy." He rolls his shoulders back, making a concerted effort not to wince. "No time."

And he's right. There isn't time. I can hear the hollering growing louder, the sound of footsteps pounding across the tile, coming toward us.

I nod. "We have to go."

Dad leads the way into the cramped tunnel. Spike and I follow, folding ourselves in as small as we can to fit through the door, pressing ourselves up against the walls as best we can to create more space.

Once we're inside, Dad presses a small, hidden button on the side of the wall, beside the opening. I watch as the little trap door slides forward again, shutting us into the small, dark tunnel.

As soon as it clicks shut, another trap door opens. This time, below our feet.

There isn't even time for me to scream.

Without warning, the three of us are dropping. Free falling through the air. It only takes a few seconds, and then we're landing with a wet splash into what I can only assume is sewer water. The three of us look at each other, stunned. I can barely make out their faces; it's so dark down here. Almost pitch black.

And it smells awful.

But we did it, I realize. The tight knot in my stomach, the one that's been growing bigger and bigger by the second ever since first meeting with Dad, begins to loosen just a little.

And in the moment I'm too happy, too completely and totally relieved, that I don't stop to think about whether or not they'll come after us. Whether or not getting out should have been more difficult than it was.

That doesn't matter right now. We made it out.

I glance back and forth between my Dad and Spike, listening to our breathing, echoing off the walls in the dark, dank space. None of us move for a minute. None of us speak.

The same question kind of seems to be floating around between us, all three of us, unspoken.

We made it out.

Now what?


	27. Chapter 25

We sit there a moment longer, looking at each other. Still stunned, still silent. A little overwhelmed.

And then we all start moving at once.

"Are you okay, Buffy?" Dad asks me, pushing himself onto his feet and reaching down toward me. I take his hand, let him pull me up.

"I think so," I say, rolling my shoulders back. I'm not in any pain right now, but the adrenaline pulsing in my veins is probably keeping me from feeling any.

And then I remember.

The prophecy. The copy of the prophecy Holland gave me. I'd folded it up, stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans…

My eyes go wide, panic stricken, and I reach around behind me. I dig my right hand into the wet denim, yanking out the folded pieces of paper and opening them up.

They're a little damp. Crinkled, soggy, but otherwise fine. The text is readable.

Well, aside from still looking like gibberish.

I breathe a sigh of relief, folding the papers back up, putting them back in my pocket.

And then another, fresh wave of panic hits me. Stronger this time, icy cold, filling up my lungs as I inhale sharply.

Spike. The crossbow.

I turn my eyes to him just in time to see him reach around, grip the end of the crossbow bolt and yank. Hard.

He winces, but doesn't make a sound. The bolt looks like it comes away clean from where I'm standing, but it tears a small hole in the back of his duster.

He exhales, bringing the bolt around in front of him. He stares at it, twisting it this way and that, examining the pointed tip.

Looking for something.

I frown.

"What is it?" I ask, wading through the ankle deep water over to him.

"Dunno," he says, glancing over his shoulder at me.

"Is there something wrong?" I ask, stepping closer to him.

He shakes his head, still looking at the bolt. Then he turns and hands it to me.

"Anything look...off to you?"

I stare at the bolt in my hands. Wooden shaft, metal tip. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it...well, except for the fact that he just dug it out of his back. And I'm not exactly weapons girl.

Not yet, at least.

"It kind of looks...normal. I think." I turn my eyes back to his, frowning. "Why?"

"I...I dunno. Just felt odd. Different."

I raise an eyebrow. "How many times have you been shot with a crossbow?"

He raises both eyebrows in return but doesn't respond, turning away from me to start putting his duster back on.

I look back down at the crossbow bolt in my hand. In the dark, I can just make out the shiny, wet film covering the head. I reach out and press the tip of my finger against the point, coming away with a small crimson stain on my finger. Spike's blood.

My eyes start to burn as I let myself feel how close I might have come to losing him. How very much I've come to rely on him. How he went from being someone, something, I never thought I'd trust to being so crucial. I can't picture my life without him in it.

How insane is that?

In front of me, Spike finishes pulling his duster back on and gets himself up to his feet. Pretty gracefully for someone who's just been shot in the back. He steps closer to me, searching my eyes with his. I know what he sees looking at me.

And even in the dark, I can see it. The concern on his face.

Only for me.

"'M fine, pet," he tells me, reaching over and placing a stray strand of my hair back behind my ear. He brushes his thumb over my cheek. "You sure you're all right?"

Dad clears his throat.

Spike drops his hand reluctantly, and we both turn to face my dad.

"Right," my vampire says, exhaling. "We need to get movin'."

I open my mouth to protest, to tell him we should wait a minute get our bearings. Let him rest.

But Dad's speaking again before I can.

"Yes, we do," he says, eyeing Spike with a wariness that makes even my skin feel tight.

Which I guess makes sense. The last time Dad had seen Spike, the last and only time he'd seen him, he'd been, for all intents and purposes, William. I've had so much time to get used to it, the change, but it hasn't been so long that I don't remember how completely it wigged me initially.

I can see the question, plain as day, all over Dad's face as he looks between the two of us, can hear the wheels turning in his head.

William is Spike?

Is he the reason we ended up here?

What's happened between us?

I swallow hard, waiting, tensed to answer any question he might ask.

He doesn't ask any of them, though.

"They'll be sending people after us. Buffy," He continues, turning his eyes on me, the tension in his face easing slightly. "You said something before…about going to Richard?"

"Yeah," Spike steps in, "last I heard, bloke was still livin' round here."

Dad nods, but keep his eyes on face instead of looking back at Spike.

"I was in contact with him, for a little while. After…" he trails off, giving me a meaningful look that I can't quite read.

There's a heavy pause, the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the thick air between us. Then, a little reluctantly, to Spike. "Do you know where he is?"

"Sorry, mate." He shakes his head, slipping his duster back on, flipping the collar out. "Never did make it out there for tea."

It's meant as a joke, spoken with sarcasm, but it makes me think. Makes me realize.

I'd been so focused on getting out, so single minded, that I hadn't thought about what would happen next. Maybe a part of me thought we just wouldn't make it.

It hadn't even occurred to me that Spike and I would've been pretty much flying blind trying to get there.

I don't know how we would have even made it out in the first place if Dad hadn't been there.

"I know his old address," Dad's saying now, his gaze cautious again, back on my vampire. "We can start there."

We can start there.

Start. Not end. Because none of us, my dad included, know where this guy actually is. Spike thinks he's still living here. Dad remembers his old address. God, for all we know Richard could be dead by now. We're still flying blind, out of our depth.

And any second, that trap door could open up and rain Wolfram and Hart guards from the sky.

I feel like I understand what people mean when they talk about not being out of the woods yet.

"Can we start by getting away from the secret sewer door?" I ask, gesturing up.

Dad nods, then starts glancing around. He spots a ladder a few feet away, leading up to a manhole and heads straight for it, climbing up the ladder and pressing both hands into the manhole cover before I can say anything.

A shaft of sunlight pours down into the sewer, and I launch myself forward, stepping in front of Spike to shield him.

"Dad!" I shout, my voice echoing much too loud in the dank space, ice cold panic gripping my chest.

He jumps, startled, dropping the cover back in place with a hollow clang. "What?"

"Day time?" I say, thinking that should be enough of an explanation. Dad responds with a raised eyebrow.

I frown. Surely he's figured it out by now.

"The sun?" I ask poignantly, gesturing with my hand, casting a meaningful look over toward Spike who's now standing beside me.

Dad's brow furrows, looking back and forth between the two of us. I see it when he realizes, because his eyes go wide. Comically wide.

"Oh," he says, quickly climbing back down the ladder. There a short pause as he looks at me, then, "Oh." He points a finger at Spike. "Because he's a…" he trails off, turning suddenly narrowed eyes on Spike. "Vampire."

If I'd thought the way he was looking at him before was ooky, now it's downright bone chilling. It occurs to me that this is another aspect of the "plan" I never thought through. Dad spent the better part of my life going out of his way to cloak me, shield me, with the specific purpose of protecting me from creatures like Spike. That he was married to a vampire slayer. The vampire standing beside me, as far as he's concerned, is probably the enemy.

A concern made all the more real by threatening look he's giving him now.

The knot in my stomach that had loosened a moment ago tightens back up again.

Spike, though, seems unrattled. Beside me, he scoffs.

"Last I checked, yeah."

I watch Dad's eyes flash in the darkness.

Not good. This is not of the good.

"Buffy," Dad says, addressing me but keeping his gaze locked on Spike. He takes a step toward us, and I feel the muscles in my vampire's shoulders tense on instinct. "You want to explain to me why a vampire-"

"Remember how I said it was a long story?" I ask, cutting him off quickly before he can give voice to whatever question it is he's about to ask.

"Buffy—" He starts to say, using the same tone of voice he had the time I'd crashed his car into the garage when I was seventeen.

Somehow, it doesn't seem as scary now as it had then.

"Look, we don't have time for this," I say hurriedly, casting a glance back toward the space in the tunnel's ceiling where I'm pretty sure we just dropped through. I turn back to Dad, looking between him and the vampire standing beside me. "Maybe we should put some distance between us and the evil law firm of death before we hash things out?"

There's another long, too long, palpably tense pause. The three of us stand there, ankle deep in the dirty water, eyeing each other in a little pyramid formation. Me, pleadingly. Spike, tensely. Dad, murderously.

Not of the good at all.

Finally, finally, Dad exhales a sigh through pursed lips and the tension in his shoulders relaxes just slightly. Then, he nods. "Okay."

The air I've been holding in releases in a whoosh. The tension down here is still heady, the air thick with it, but I think maybe we've settled on at least a momentary standstill. Just until we can get where we need to go.

"Right," Spike says, looking at me briefly with raised eyebrows before turning back to my dad. "If you can tell me where to find the old goat, I can get us there."

Dad raises his eyebrows, casting a glance meaningfully over his shoulder toward the manhole cover. Spike rolls his eyes.

The knot in my stomach twists into a double.

"Through the sewer tunnels," he explains, putting his hands on his hips. "Just until sunset."

Another tense moment passes between the two of them but it's over before I have to step in and say anything.

Dad puts his own hands on his hips, but drags his eyes away from Spike to look back at me.

"It's an apartment, in a six story walk up near Franklin," he tells us, his lips forming a thin line. "If they're still in the city, they should be there."

"Tribeca?" Spike asks.

Dad nods curtly.

"'S about a mile, mile and a half from here, innit," he says, brow furrowing. "We're...what? Barely west of 5th now?"

Dad nods again but doesn't say anything.

Spike sets his jaw, gives me one last, long look, then turns and starts leading the way through one of the tunnels open on the left side of the sewer. I don't ask him how he knows which way to go. It might just be some weird vamp thing. And he used to live here, I do know that.

I'm sure he travelled through the sewers often enough back then, too.

I fall into step a little ways behind him, Dad coming to walk next to me. The three of us walk quickly, silently, for a little while. The only sounds are the splashing of the water and the distant dripping sounds, like we're in a cave instead of sewer tunnel underneath New York City.

There's also the rats. Big ones, scurrying back and forth along the tunnel's edges on either side of us.

I ignore them.

"They?" I ask after the dripping, splashing silence gets to be too much for me.

Dad shifts his eyes over to mine.

"What?" He asks, frowning.

"You said they," I explain, folding my arms over my chest. "They should still be there?"

"Oh," he says, turning his eyes back ahead of him, focusing in on Spike's back. "Richard and his son. They worked together, both part of the...something called the Watcher's Council, when your mom was still…" he trails off, clearing his throat. "She was close. With both of them."

So Richard wasn't the only Watcher my mom knew.

I nod, biting down on my bottom lip. "And you think they still live together?"

It seems odd to me, after so many years. But significant, too. I can't put my finger on why.

Beside me, Dad slows his walk. I slow down too, matching him. He turns his eyes on me again, and his voice drops down low.

"How much do you know, sweetheart?" He asks. "About…what happened with—"

"Mom?" I supply, finishing the thought for him.

He nods.

I shrug, the smallest hint of bitterness in my voice as I say "A lot more now than I did about a week ago."

Dad winces, and I immediately feel sorry for saying it. He'd just been trying to protect me, by keeping everything from me. Wanting to keep me safe.

And I know already how guilty he feels.

I sigh, turning my eyes back forward. I focus on Spike, too. On the beacon of his white-blonde hair in the darkness.

"I know she was the Slayer. I know Richard was her Watcher. I know…" that a vampire named Drusilla killed her. That Spike was there when it happened. That I was there when it happened. "…that you worked for Wolfram and Hart when you two met, and that…" they wanted to use Mom. But then she got pregnant with me, and… "I know about the prophecy." I shift my eyes toward him again. "The one that made you leave New York."

The one that says I'm some sort of world ending, vampire loving, slayer/human hybrid weapon.

I say as much with my silence as I do with the words. How much of what I don't say he picks up on, I don't know. But he's undeniably tensed up beside me, and up ahead of us, Spike has increased his speed. It separates him from us by about five yards.

I know he's done it on purpose. I'm grateful.

"So, you know...just about everything," Dad says, exhaling a sigh and summing up what I've just said in one quick swoop.

A wry, sardonic smile curls the corner of my lips.

"Do I?" I ask, giving Dad a poignant, sideways glance.

Funny. I don't feel like I know much of anything. I have some answers, sure, but so far all they've gotten me are more questions.

And a flimsy "plan" that still might get us all killed. Or maybe just me, if Richard tells us the prophecy says what we think it says.

I guess that's comforting. In a twisty wrong way.

Beside me, Dad sighs.

"After Wolfram and Hart discovered that prophecy," he begins quietly, his eyes down on the ground as we walk, "it wasn't safe here anymore. For any of us. The plan was for me to take you that night, get you far away from here. Your mom was going to follow a few days later. She'd needed time, I think. To tie up loose ends. Have a conversation with Richard. She was on her way to meet Richard, to bring you to him so he could get you to me, when she…" he trails off, voice growing thick with emotion.

I feel the tears start to burn my eyes, too, but blink them away. There isn't time for tears.

"Why didn't she just bring me directly to you?" I ask quietly.

My other question hangs there, unspoken. But there none the less.

Would she still be alive if she had?

Dad shakes his head. "We…I'm not even sure anymore. I think we thought it would be safer, for all of us, if we weren't all in the same place at one time." He sighs. "Richard brought you to me that night, after…" He clears his throat. "And we left. I-I took you and followed the plan, the way your mom and I had discussed it."

I take a steadying breath in through my mouth, exhaling through my nose. "And Richard and his son?"

"Went into hiding," he responds simply, almost like I should have known it already. "I mean it when I say it wasn't safe here for anyone. We'd discussed having them come with us, meet us out in California but…"

I think about what he'd said earlier. How he'd been in contact with Richard early on, after Mom had first died. After we'd moved.

"You stopped hearing from him."

He nods solemnly. My stomach twists.

Richard could be dead by now.

I close my eyes for a minute, trying not to let the implications of that weigh me down. Not yet. I decide to steer the conversation a different direction, maybe try and figure out how much of what Holland told me is true and how much might have been fabricated.

I still don't know what he would have gotten out of lying to me. Don't know why he needed a sample of Spike's blood. Don't know why he only fired the crossbow at Spike once.

I don't know a lot of things.

It's the same way I felt when I was standing in his office earlier. For every question answered, two more take its place. I open my eyes again, finding and focusing once more on Spike in front of us.

"Did you…" I start, but trail off. I nibble my lip. "Did Holland show you the prophecy?"

I feel Dad's body tense up next to mine. "Just once," he says softly, "the day I quit."

So, that piece matches up at least.

"So, you knew. That…it would be a vampire they'd send after me?"

"I…did. From what Richard had told me, about that night and," he pauses, looking at me with sad eyes, "what I'd read."

I fold my arms tighter around my chest, rubbing my hands up and down my arms.

What he'd read. In the prophecy. About needing the vampire's bite, the demon connection, to fulfill the first half of the prophecy. The prophecy that says I'll turn into a Buffy of Mass Destruction on the day of my 25th birthday.

I inhale sharply, nodding solemnly. "So it's true, then."

My voice shakes. I try really hard to keep it from shaking, but I can't. The little bloom of hope, the iffiness of Spike's translation, the promise of Richard seems to flutter away, petering out in my chest.

I look at my vampire, up ahead of us. If he can hear us, he doesn't show it.

I'm thankful, now, that I hadn't said it. Thankful that he'd stopped me. Still, if he's able to do that freaky mind-reading thing, he probably knows. Might even be able to feel it through our connection, the way I can feel it now from him.

Then again, I don't think I could feel it. Not really, not until he'd said it out loud.

Or maybe I had, and I'd just refused to believe it. To believe that's what it could be.

I feel hot, stinging tears fill my eyes for the second time since entering the sewers.

No. I'm sure he knows.

But Dad is still talking, and I force myself to focus back on him, blinking rapidly.

"Just because it's written somewhere doesn't make it true, Buffy," he says, firmly, reassuringly. He reaches out, cupping my elbow in his hand and squeezing as we walk. "These things…there are so many variables. Things would have had to align perfectly for what it says to...come true."

Like the variables Wolfram and Hart worked so hard to ensure would line up.

"Like what things?" I ask quietly, even though I know, I know, what he's going to say.

"You'd have to be bitten by the vampire that killed your mother, first of all. "

And there it is.

I squeeze my eyes shut, grimacing, then open them again. "Not exactly."

In front of me, I watch Spike's shoulders stiffen. I'd known he'd been listening. It would have been impossible for him not to. He's only about ten feet in front of us, and with that freaky good hearing of his…

Dad stops walking, uses the hand still cupping my elbow to stop me, pulling me around to face him.

"What do you mean, not exactly?" He asks, his suddenly gone very wide as they search my face. "That's what the text said."

There's no more splashing from in front of us. Spike's stopped walking, too.

"Turns out, it didn't have to be the same vampire…as long as it was a vampire from the same line."

Dad's brow furrows. "The same line?"

"Blood line. The Aurelians. Holland told me…they didn't trust the vampire that killed mom to…do what needed to be done, so they went after the other members of her Order instead."

His eyes widen in understanding as he grips my arm tighter. "William?"

"Spike," I correct him automatically, softly, but nod.

The word has barely left my lips when Dad suddenly lets go of my arm, storming around me. I turn to watch him as he grabs Spike by the shoulder, wheeling him around and slamming his fist into his jaw. Spike growls low in his throat, turning blazing eyes back on my father.

It can't have been that hard of a hit. Probably didn't even hurt Spike that much.

But I react on instinct anyway, flying forward, putting one hand on Dad's chest and the other on Spike's, putting myself directly between the two of them.

"What are you doing?" I ask Dad, searching his face with wild, wide eyes.

But he isn't looking at me. His eyes are murderous, riveted on the vampire behind me. He jabs a finger over my shoulder. "You let him bite you?"

Behind me, Spike chuckles humorlessly. It sends a chill down my spine in a way that I haven't felt since early on, sitting in the car on one of those first nights. Cold, mocking.

"Let's probably a little strong of a word, mate," he says, his voice coming out low and honeyed.

Because that's helping.

Dad's already looking like he'd love nothing more than to shove a redwood through my vampire's chest. Now isn't the time for sarcasm or quips.

I whip my head toward him, eyebrows raised. "Shut up, Spike."

His eyes meet mine, and a little of the anger from a moment ago melts away. He's still tense, muscles still coiled, but I can feel him relax just slightly beneath the palm of my hand.

"He bit you," Dad repeats it again, drawing my attention back toward him. He says it in a funny way, maybe like he's hoping I'll deny it.

After the little display from a moment ago, I kind of wish I could.

But there's no point. Not now. If we're going to deal with this prophecy stuff head on, this all needs to be out in the open.

"Okay, yes, he did," I say, trying my best to affect my most soothing tone of voice. Dad's eyes flash and he moves to come at Spike again, but I block his path, continuing hurriedly. "It was…an accident. He didn't mean to." I press my palm firmer into his chest, frowning. "And it isn't like I knew him biting me was going to start some freaky ancient prophecy going! Hello? Kind of in the dark here."

Something about what I say, the way I say it, chastens him. Dad shakes his head, drops his gaze down to the water at our feet. His brow furrows like he's thinking very hard about something. I let my hand fall from his chest.

"So it's already started," he murmurs softly after a moment.

My vampire snorts.

"Well, yeah," he says, moving to stand beside me. "Where've you been?"

This brings Dad's head up, so fast I find myself stepping back.

"You," he says, pointing a hard finger at Spike, his voice low. "This is your fault."

Spike takes a small step forward, narrowing his eyes. "My fault?"

And suddenly it's like I'm not even here anymore. My father and my vampire lock eyes on each other, stepping around me so that they're facing one another.

"You...manipulated her," Dad accuses, still pointing. "Tricked her into trusting you."

Spike scoffs coldly, pointing right back. "Woulda been loads more difficult if you hadn't kept her in the dark."

I look back and forth between the two of them. "Her is standing right here."

But they aren't hearing me, either of them. Both their eyes are blazing, voices matched, equally low but growing rapidly higher with each accusation.

"You kidnapped her-"

"Maybe if you had been more honest with her in the first place-"

They're half talking over each other now, each one barely finishing a thought, hardly getting one point out before they're on to the next.

"-and then you went and fulfilled the prophecy by biting her."

"Oi! 'S not like I knew about that, yeah? Nobody keeps me in the bloody loop."

I just stand there, useless, unable to get a word in edgewise. Frozen to the spot, only half hearing what each of them is saying. I'm waiting, every muscles tense, for the fight to come to blows. Ready to step in if it does.

"If you'd been able to control yourself—"

"I'm not the one who lied to your daughter for eighteen sodding years."

Dad's eyes flash, and he leans forward. "I was protecting her."

"Yeah?" Spike says, eyes wide as he leans forward, too. "And a bloody lot of good your protection did her."

That does it.

Dad flies forward, launching himself at Spike again. But I'm there in time, before he can connect another fist with my vampire's face, placing my body once again between the two of them.

"Stop it!" I shout, chest heaving, looking back and forth between the two men. The man and the vampire. My father, and the vampire that I love.

My shoulders sag.

"Please," I continue, but my voice has lost the biting edge from a moment ago. I turn my eyes pleadingly between the two of them, finding both their eyes with mine.

We can't be fighting like this. We can't afford to waste this kind of time. Not now, not when we still have so much farther to go.

My eyes come to rest on Spike, and I search his gaze, his face.

"This isn't helping," I say softly.

He nods, casting one last wary glance toward my dad, then looking back to me. "'M Sorry, luv."

And he is. I can see it.

I offer him a small, grateful smile, resisting the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to his lips.

Something tells me that wouldn't go a long way in calming the situation down.

So I take a deep breath instead, exhaling through my nose. "The sun has to be down by now, right?" I ask, directing the question at Spike's internal sun dial.

My vampire nods. "'S low enough by now, at least. Be down fully in about twenty minutes."

I turn my gaze back to Dad.

"Can we get out of here?" I ask, thinking in my head that maybe if we get out of here, out of the dark musty space and back into the open, fresh air things might calm down. Maybe some of the tension will fade away. "Go up and look around for this…place?"

Dad drags his eyes away from Spike, almost reluctantly focusing back on me.

"We probably should," he says, obviously thinking now about the situation we're in. "Richard had the place cloaked, hidden. Kind of like what I did with you, Buffy." He turns one more scathing glare on the vampire. "I'm sure you know about that by now. The point is, it might take some time for me to find it. Even then-"

"They might not be there," I finish for him, thinking back to what he'd told me earlier.

Dad nods. Spike folds his arms over his chest, drops his gaze down to the ground, but doesn't ask what we're talking about. He doesn't have to.

It confirms for me that he'd been listening, had heard our conversation from earlier.

So he knows. He knows it's true.

He knows what's going to happen.

My heart clenches in my chest, and I reach out, unthinking, gripping him around the forearm nearest to me and squeezing. His gaze comes up to meet mine. I squeeze once more, going for reassuring, and let my hand drop to my side.

"There's a sewer exit about just a little ways further down," Spike says, looking at me for another long moment before turning to look at my dad. "We can exit there. Right 'round Franklin and Broadway."

"Good," I say, breathing a little sigh. "That's good, right?"

Dad nods. "Let's go."

As he passes by, Dad stops directly in front of him. His voice is so low, so close to Spike's ear that I can barely make out what he's saying. Then he steps around him, heading for the ladder and climbing up, pushing the manhole cover off.

But I've heard it, heard what he's said. And even if I hadn't, I can see written across Spike's face. Pained, suddenly gone ashen. His eyes are wide and haunted as they look into mine.

"Anything happens to her, I'm holding you personally responsible."

It's the last thing, the absolute last thing, Spike needs to hear right now. Besides how deeply I know he's already blaming himself, with what we've just found out, it's so much more real now than it had been even just an hour ago.

I reach for him again, instinctively, but he steps away from me before I can get a hold on him. He shakes his head.

"Spike," I start to say, stepping closer to him. "I'm sorry-"

But he doesn't want to hear it. Even if he did, I'm not 100% sure what I'd thought I was going to say.

Sorry you were right.

Sorry I asked you to kill me.

Sorry you're probably going to have to.

"C'mon, pet," he says, cutting me off quickly. He turns his back on me and follows my Dad further down the tunnel. "Have ourselves a Watcher to find."

I chase after him, grabbing for his arm, turning him to face me.

"We need to talk about this."

"Nothin' to talk about. Not yet," he grits out, jaw clenching in frustration. "The prophecy your dad saw...Holland showed him that, yeah? Same as you. Who's to say they aren't both wrong?"

I start to say something, I don't know what, but he stops me. Puts both hands on either side of my face and pulls me forward, crushing my lips to his in a quick, searing kiss that steals the breath from my lungs.

It's over as quickly as it begins, and Spike pulls away from me, looking down into my face with stormy, midnight colored eyes.

"Even if it is true," he whispers fiercely, holding my face very tightly, "we'll bloody well find another way to stop it."

And he means it. Is entirely convinced of it.

And in this moment, I am too.

He stares at me a half second longer, looking at me in the same tense, completely overwhelming way he'd looked at me before the escape. And I think it again, in my head, wonder if he can tell it's what I want to say.

I love you.

And just as I've thought it, he drops his hands from my face and turns from me again, storming down the tunnel, splashing water haphazardly around his feet as he goes.

I stand there watching him for a moment longer before I start to follow. I reach behind me as I walk, pat the place in my back pocket where the folded prophecy copy is tucked securely into my jeans.

We'll find another way to stop it.

I really hope he's right.

I'd like to have a chance to say the words out loud.


	28. Chapter 26

We exit the sewer tunnels without much trouble and immediately melt into the throngs of people that are milling around outside, blending seamlessly into the crowd as we step out into the street.

It's a relief.

I realize dimly, glancing around, that I haven't spent much time outside at all in the past week. And hardly ever feeling free to walk around. There are Christmas lights dotting the buildings on either side of us, the faint sounds of music and bustling traffic and the smell of food wafting through the air, reminding me that it's the end of December.

Three weeks until my birthday.

But it's nice. Calming, in a way. I wonder if there's something about being here again, walking along these streets that I somehow just know I've walked before, that's making me feel better. Even knowing we're not free and clear just yet, knowing it's probably only a matter of time before Wolfram and Hart come after us again, the frigid New York December air has me feeling another small renewed sense of hope.

And also very cold.

Spike doesn't speak to me as we walk, following my father further down the street. He doesn't speak, either. The tension emanating between my Dad and my vampire, and me, somewhere in between the two, is thick. It surrounds us even in the open air. The only time Spike seems to fully acknowledge my presence beside him is when he removes his duster and drapes it over my shoulders.

I hadn't realized I'd been shivering until I'd stopped.

He still doesn't say anything, doesn't speak to me. But it's okay, I think, because there isn't much to say. Spike had been right before when he'd said there isn't anything to talk about yet. There's still so much we don't know. So many questions unanswered.

Even though we aren't speaking, I catch myself paying extra attention to my vampire as we walk. His shoulder dips when he moves, like he's hurting. He'll be needing blood soon, and I'd like to have a chance to clean his wound, get a better look at the damage the crossbow bolt had done.

He'd said it felt different.

I'm trying my best not to be too concerned about what that could mean just yet.

For not having been in this city for over eighteen years, it seems like Dad still pretty much knows his way around. He leads us quietly, without pausing, down to a cross section of two streets, then turns to the left, leading us down an empty back alley.

He comes to an abrupt stop about halfway down, peering intently at the solid brick wall in front of him. Beside me, Spike's shoulders tense up.

It's slight, almost imperceptible, but I can't help but notice. It has to be the connection, this hyper attuned awareness of his body I have wherever we go.

I've been feeling it for a while now, probably since he'd first bitten me, but there's no denying it's gotten stronger. Will probably continue to grow for the next several weeks, until the prophecy can be fully satisfied.

I turn to look at him, but his eyes are down, focused on the ground.

I look away from him, glance around the space, frowning. There's something eerily familiar about this place. It feels like I've been here before, maybe, but that...it's not possible. At least not that I should be able to remember, not this clearly.

And then I see it. Up ahead just a little ways, maybe half a block down, I see it. Glowing red, half the letters are sputtering, blinking on and off with some fidgety electrical pulse. The sign.

Max's.

My head starts to spin and I step back, glancing wildly around the alleyway, only now recognizing it for what it is.

This is it.

This is the alley where my mother was killed, the one from my dreams. The last place I'd seen her alive. Dad said she'd been taking me to Richard. Spike had said that Richard and his son...they'd shown up out of nowhere, maybe two minutes too late. Here.

Right here.

I look at Dad, who's still staring hard at a set of bricks in front of him, and I realize he doesn't know. Doesn't know where we are, what this place is.

He reaches out and places his hand against the wall, pressing into the brick, brow furrowed. Whatever it is he's thinking about, he's concentrating very hard. It takes me a minute, but I'm able to put two and two together.

They cloaked it.

The wall. That's what dad's looking for, checking for the cloaking spell on the wall.

"Is it here?" I ask, taking a step toward him.

Dad doesn't answer me.

"Is what here?" Spike asks.

They're the first words he's spoken to me since leaving the sewer.

I turn my eyes on him, and his scarred eyebrow is quirked. I can see on his face that he knows the same thing I know. That we both recognize this place. But he isn't going to bring it up, not now. There's no reason to.

So neither am I.

"The apartment," I say instead.

Spike frowns, turning his eyes back on Dad, then to the very solid looking brick wall of the building in front of him. He looks dubious for all of five seconds, then he shrugs.

"Right."

"It's here," Dad murmurs suddenly, more to himself than to either of us. Still, Spike and I both turn our eyes toward him. "It's here, I can feel it. I just…" he trails off, placing both hands on the brick wall now, moving them slowly around in rhythmic circles. "Can't remember…"

"How to get past it?" I ask.

Dad turns his eyes back to me, almost like he's just remembering I'm here. "More or less."

"Well, aren't all these spells sort of the same?" I ask, stepping closer to the wall. I frown. "You know...seen one cloaking spell, seen 'em all."

This brings a small, appreciative smile to my dad's lips. "Not exactly, honey."

"Can't we just bloody break through it?" Spike asks, unfolding his arms and stepping closer to us. He gestures toward the brick my dad still has his hands on. "'S just behind the wall, yeah?"

"Great idea," Dad snarks, turning on the vampire. "And while we're at it, why don't we hang a flashing neon sign over the door, too."

Spike narrows his eyes, takes one menacing step forward. "Better'n standin' out here doin' nothi—"

I groan.

"Can't we just try knocking?" I ask, cutting him off mid-snarl.

Two pairs of incredulous eyes turn on me, two sets of eyebrows raised.

"What?" I ask, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Why is that any worse an idea than breaking the wall down or just standing out here, staring?"

"Buffy, you can't just knock."

"Why not? It's polite."

"If they're in there, they've been in hiding for almost twenty years."

"So, you're telling me they haven't left ever? Or never had visitors?"

"Yes."

I step past him with a huff, placing my body in between his and the brick wall. I reach up and wrap my knuckles, hard, against the brick his hand had just been pressed against.

"It's worth a try," I say, turning around to face him. "At least while you're trying to figure out how to get through it."

I'm in the middle of speaking, of defending myself, when Dad suddenly reaches forward. Extends his hand out, palm up, and whispers something under his breath.

I'm about to ask him what he's said when I hear it. A shifting sound, coming from behind me.

Dad grins at me. "I remembered."

I turn around to face the brick, watching in silence as the solid form of the wall seems to melt away, revealing a door with a steel cage in front of it. Not your average, run-of-the-mill front door, but more solid looking. Like it might be reinforced.

And then the door creaks open, revealing a sliver of light spilling out onto the street at our feet. There's a figure there, in the doorway. Obviously male, but I can't make out anything else in the silhouette against the light.

But then the door swings all the way open in a sudden, near violent movement and I'm staring up at a man with shortish, dark brown hair, peppered slightly with grey on the sides. He looks to be in his mid-forties, probably the same age as Dad, with steely blue-grey eyes peering out behind a pair of glasses.

The eyes are wide now, blinking, focused just over my shoulder. Like I'm not even there.

"Hank?" He murmurs, the shock registering even through the sound of his accent.

I turn my head over my shoulder to glance at my dad. He nods toward the man in the doorway. "Hello, Ripper."

I frown.

Ripper?

There's a long, breathless pause between us all, and I turn back to look at the man in the doorway. I'd pictured him differently. Taller, maybe. More…imposing. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's what Spike had told me before, about the Watcher's Council. How scary he'd made them sound.

The man standing before me isn't scary at all.

And he's still staring with wide eyes at my father. "How did you…"

"I remembered," Dad says, repeating the same words as he and to me a minute ago. "I wasn't even sure you'd still be here."

They continue to stare at each other for a long moment. It starts to feel tense.

I clear my throat, more out of habit than anything else, and ask, "Are you Richard?"

The man's eyes shift, light on me.

If possible, they widen even more.

"Oh, dear," he murmurs softly, his gaze now pouring over my face, studying me. "Y-you…you must be—"

"Buffy," I supply, cutting him off abruptly before he can call me Elizabeth.

I'm tired of people doing that.

"Yes, Buffy." He steps further into the doorway, a little closer to me. His eyes still searing into me as he narrows them, like he's seeing something that he doesn't understand.

Like he's seen a ghost.

"You look just like her," he whispers.

I don't have to ask him who he's talking about.

Her. My mom.

But he still hasn't answered my question.

"So we know who I am," I say, feeling a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "I don't mean to be rude but I still don't know who you are."

My words jar him. An expression crosses his face, something akin to horrified. Maybe that he's forgotten to introduce himself.

"Rupert Giles," he says, extending his hand out to me. I take it, but can't keep the frown off my face.

Rupert? But that isn't right.

Unless…

"This is Richard's son, Buffy," Dad says from behind me, answering the thought I'd just had a moment ago.

Oh.

Richard. Rupert. Ripper.

What's the deal with R names?

Is that a Watcher thing?

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Giles," I say. There's a short pause, then, "well, see you…again. I guess."

I let go of Rupert's hand, and he smiles at me warmly, if not a little distantly.

"Yes, it's been…a long time." He's still looking at me that way, his eyes riveted on mine. "And please," he adds after a moment, "just Giles is fine."

From behind me, Spike snorts.

"This is real nice and everythin'," he announces, "but can we maybe have our little reunion, I don't know, inside?"

Inside. Right. Where we might actually be safe for a minute or two. The reason we'd come all the way here in the first place. Where our answers are.

Giles's eyes snap away from mine, back over my left shoulder, narrowing when they land on my vampire. It's obvious he hadn't noticed him until now.

"You," he hisses, all English gentlemanly pretense vanishing in the blink of an eye. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Spike just smirks. "Nice to see you too, mate."

Giles's eyes flash.

Dad's brow furrows. "You two know each other?"

It only occurs to me after he's said it that he doesn't know. Doesn't know Spike was there that night, in the alley.

Doesn't know he'd fought Mom. That it was his insane lover who'd killed her, and not just a member of his order.

But if he didn't know before, it sounds like he's about to find out.

"We told you to never come back here," Giles says, his voice very low. "That was the deal."

I frown, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Deal?

Spike tenses, the smirk falls and his eyes narrow to slits.

"Yeah, well," he murmurs, "things change."

I watch the muscle in Giles's jaw clench. "You and Drusilla—"

"Dru ain't here, is she?" Spike snarls, dropping his hands to his sides and lurching forward.

I don't know exactly what's just happened, but I'm thinking that there's more to the story from the night my mom died than what Spike's told me.

I glance back and forth between Giles and the vampire to my right.

A lot more.

I reach out and put my hand on Spike's arm. His muscle twitches briefly, but relaxes under my touch. I turn back around.

Giles's eyes are narrowed, brow furrowed in confusion.

"What exactly is going on here?" He asks, looking toward Dad.

"Let's stand out here and talk about it some more," Spike snarks, darting a glance down the alleyway, the direction from where we came.

"Ripper," my dad interrupts suddenly, "we'll explain everything, but it isn't safe out here. We need to get inside."

Something, some kind of wordless understanding passes between the two men. It's clear to me that there was a relationship here. Even after eighteen years, I can see it, but whether it was a good one or bad one, I can't tell.

I wonder how well they'd known each other. Dad had told me before that Mom was close, to both Richard and his son, but I hadn't thought about what that meant for Dad. Or for me.

It isn't like I have any real memories of any of them.

Giles gives Spike one last, hard look and then reluctantly steps back out of the doorway, allowing room for me to pass. I step inside, and Dad follows me. I turn back around to see Spike standing on the street, directly in font of the door. He's folded his arms back over his chest, looking up at Giles expectantly.

"Little help?" He asks, indicating to the threshold in front of him.

"And," the older man says, tilting his head. "What makes you think I'll invite you into my home?"

The whole thing plays out a little silly to me. In the time I've known Spike, I haven't witnessed this little detail of vampire lore come to life. It would almost be comical, if there weren't such a rush of panic flooding my veins.

"It's not safe out there," I repeat the words Dad said a minute ago.

Apparently, they don't have the same meaning coming from me.

"I'm sure he'll be just fine," Giles says coolly, preparing to turn away from the door.

I frown.

"We need him," I insist, taking a step back toward the doorway.

Giles looks down at me, puzzled.

"What on earth could you possibly need–"

I reach my hand up, yank my hair to the side to reveal the bite mark on the curve of my throat.

"He's as involved in this as I am."

I don't know exactly what I'm hoping to prove, what I think showing them the mark will do. Maybe remind Dad that, whether he likes it or not, some part of me is connected with some part of Spike. Remind him that we don't fully understand, don't really know, what that means.

It works, and not just for the reasons I think it might. A subtle change steels over Giles's features, his eyes flickering between my exposed throat and my father. His jaw tics, and his lips form a thin line.

"Unfortunately," my dad says pointedly, casting a scathing glare in Spike's direction, "she's right. We need him."

I don't know if it's what Dad says, or maybe just how he says it, but something in Giles's face changes again. Hardens. His gaze is ice cold when he turns it back on Spike, but it doesn't matter now.

The decision's been made.

"Fine," he says stiffly, standing aside. "I invite you in."

Spike smirks, stepping forward and deliberately crossing the threshold with a sinuous flourish.

Giles puts on a brave face, his features stony, but I notice him flinch away from Spike as he passes by.

"Don't worry," he murmurs, tilting his head to the side, dropping his voice to a menacing rumble, "you're too old to eat."

Giles glares at him once more before turning his back, marching down a long, narrow corridor.

I toss Spike a hard look, frowning.

"What are you doing?" I ask, voice hushed as we turn to follow Giles down the small hallway. Dad's already disappeared around the corner.

Spike looks at me, eyebrow raised. "What?"

I raise my own eyebrows, indicating back to the doorway, his attitude with Giles.

It's like he's trying to make things worse.

Spike exhales, pursing his lips. "Just didn't like the way he was lookin' at me, pet."

I drop my gaze down to the floor.

"He sort of has a reason to look at you that way," I remind him softly, thinking back to the exchange between them in the alley.

It shouldn't surprise me, that things would be tense between them, it just hadn't been my number one concern before now.

The last time Giles had seen Spike had to have been that night, right after it happened. After Drusilla had killed my mom.

And from what it sounded like a moment ago, I'm thinking something else happened, too.

"Yeah," Spike says, sounding suddenly very tired. Like he wishes I hadn't mentioned it. "I know."

We reach the end of the narrow corridor, turn the corner. I stop at the room's entrance, taking the opportunity to glance around.

The room widens out into what looks like a small dining area, complete with a round table and four wooden chairs. From there, the room extends back into a galley style kitchen. There's a staircase to my right. The walls are hidden behind rows of big wooden shelves, which are almost entirely lined in books.

It's small, a little cramped, but it's cozy. Nice.

My eyes finally come to land on Giles from across the room.

"You're safe here," He assures me, offering me a small smile. "As soon as that door shuts, the cloaking spell falls back in place."

He's misunderstood my shifting glances for nervousness and not the simple curiosity it is.

I don't correct him.

"Thank you," I murmur instead.

He smiles again, turning his gaze toward the staircase just as Dad comes back down. He pauses as he turns the corner, his face grave.

"Richard?"

Giles nods gravely. "A few years ago."

And that's all it is. The exchange is that brief, but it isn't hard to tell what's going on. I know what's been said. We've come here looking for Richard, but he's gone.

But we're not entirely out of luck. Dad had said that both Richard and his son were members of the Watcher's Council. And isn't that what Spike had told me anyway? That Richard being a Watcher, the schooling involved, is what might mean he'd be able to read the prophecy?

"So," Giles says, turning to look first at me, then back to Dad, "what is it I can do for you?"

But he asks it in a funny way. Not the way he asked what was going on earlier in the doorway, but more resigned. He doesn't really ask at all, more just…says it. Like he doesn't need to ask, or maybe like he just already knows what's coming next.

"It's happening, Ripper."

It's the only explanation he gives. Apparently, it's the only one he needs to.

"You're certain?"

Dad looks over at me. His eyes wander over my face, down to the hands clenching the lapels of the leather, then over to Spike who's still standing halfway behind me.

"Pretty damn."

Giles doesn't look surprised. He looks grave, dropping his gaze down to the floor.

"How?" He asks.

Dad crosses his arms over his chest, exhaling slowly. "Need me to start from the beginning?"

Giles shakes his head. "No time."

"I think we might have Oedipused ourselves here."

Giles nods, turning his back and walking over toward the table and chairs.

"It's what father was always concerned about. What he tried to warn Joyce of." He turns, eyes snapping up to Dad's. "And you."

Dad shifts his eyes over to me, expression drawn. "I know."

I shake my head, trying my best to decode what is they're saying to each other. They're speaking so fast, with so much unspoken understanding. It might as well be another language.

"Hey," I interrupt, looking back and forth between the two older men. "Someone want to explain to the rest of the class?"

This brings both of their attentions back to me.

"We reacted out of fear of what the prophecy said, going to great lengths to avoid it," Giles explains, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "In doing so we may have in fact caused it to come true."

I stare at him.

Oh. Oedipus.

A low growl rumbles from Spike's chest before he says simply, "That's bollocks."

Cool grey-blue eyes turn on him, eyebrows raised. "Is it?"

"This isn't some sodding greek tragedy," he says, coming further into the room, stepping up beside me. "I thought you Watcher's were supposed to be the goody good guys. You know. Never give up, never surrender, all that crap."

Dad squares his shoulders, turning his body to face Spike. He crosses his arms. "Do you have a suggestion?"

The vampire scoffs.

"Bloody right I do," he says, looking over at me with the same urgent intensity I'd seen from him before, when he'd kissed me, before turning back to the other men. "We stop it."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Giles asks, reaching up and pulling his glasses off his face.

Spike narrows his eyes, opens his mouth to respond and promptly freezes. Mid-thought, lips already forming his next word. His brow furrows, and he turns to look at me.

"Ow," he murmurs, eyes confused as they search mine. Then again a little louder, "Ow."

And then his shoulder jerks, spasms, and he cries out again, louder this time. It only lasts for a second, and then it stops again.

I stare at him with wide eyes, reach tentatively toward him. "Spike?"

He doesn't move, doesn't respond at all. I'm not sure he's even heard me.

"Spike," I try again, stepping a little closer to him, "what is it?"

My eyes scan over him, from the pained expression on his face to the tense, strained muscles in his neck. Down further, until I see it. The tear in his t-shirt where the crossbow bolt had embedded itself.

I frown. Is it just now starting to bother him? He'd been acting just fine.

I reach for him, unthinkingly, hands automatically going to the space on his back. My fingers barely touch him when the muscle in his shoulder suddenly spasms again, and he jerks out of my reach.

I pull my hand back, blinking, confused.

"Ow," he cries out one more time, even louder this time. But it's more than just pain in his voice, it's also shock. His eyes widen and he whips his head back, trying to get a look at the wound on his shoulder.

No one moves. I don't think any of us know what's happening. I want to reach for him again, but I'm almost afraid to.

"It's fine," he says after a minute, but his voice is strained. "I'm fine. I think it's stop—"

But he's cut off, another wild cry of pain emanating from his lips as the muscle spasms again, more violently this time.

I watch as a little curl of smoke escapes through the tear in his shirt.

He sees it, too.

"Bloody hell," he gasps, voice coming out pitched high with pain.

I don't hesitate to reach for him now, frantically tugging at the black cotton of his shirt until I have it up high enough, yank it over his head. He growls when it scrapes over the wound, but doesn't pull away from me this time.

I'm not sure what it is I'm expecting to see. Maybe some blood, some discoloration around the space where the bolt had struck him. What I see instead is something else. There's an obvious wound, about an inch in diameter. He'd probably made it wider when he'd torn the bolt out. And there's a little blood. A tiny amount, congealed around the edges, already starting to heal.

It's what's inside the wound, though, that catches my eye. Where the little curls of smoke are coming from. A tiny piece of metal, not much larger than the head of ballpoint pen. Whatever it is, whatever it's supposed to do, it looks like it's malfunctioning. Even as I stare at it, I see it crackle, releasing a sickening, sizzling sound and shooting tiny sparks out onto his skin.

And it's in deep.

I whip my head up, finding Dad's eyes with mine.

"Help me," I say, immediately maneuvering Spike around, pushing him down into one of the wooden chairs so I can get a better vantage point. "Help me get it out."

Dad frowns, looking confused. "Get what out?"

I don't know how to explain it.

"There's something in him," I say, the words sounding silly to my own ears, "they shot something…" I dart my eyes back and forth between Giles and my Dad, fumbling for words. They're both looking at me like it's my turn to be speaking a foreign language.

"There's something inside the wound," I explain finally, my voice coming out louder than I expect.

That registers. Both their eyes go wide with understanding.

"What is it?" Giles asks.

The small metal thing sparks again, and Spike cries out in pain.

I don't care what it is. I just want it out. Now.

"Tweezers," I say, wild eyes meeting Giles's. "Do you have tweezers? It's in too deep."

He only hesitates for a moment before turning and heading toward the kitchen. He emerges a few seconds later, crosses the room and pushes me out of the way. He deftly wields a pair of needle nose pliers into Spike's shoulder wound without a second's hesitation.

"Bloody hell," Spike roars, leaning forward and gripping onto the table with both hands, so hard his knuckles visibly whiten. "That hurts, you git."

"Terribly sorry," Giles murmurs, but he doesn't look sorry at all.

I watch as he twists the pliers, then pulls. Hard. They come away with the tiny metal object lodged between the prongs.

Spike groans in relief, slumping forward, laying his head flat on the side of the table.

I turn my eyes up to the little metal object.

"What is it?" I ask, stepping in to get a closer look. Now that it's out, now that Spike no longer seems to be in immediate pain, I take the time to care.

"A tracker," Dad says immediately, stepping forward, plucking the pliers out of Giles's hand and staring down at it.

"A tracker?" I repeat numbly.

So that's why. Why Holland had only fired the crossbow once. Why he hadn't aimed to kill. Why he hadn't sent hordes of armed guards down into the sewers after us.

He hadn't needed to.

"I worked with them before, when I was with Wolfram and Hart," he explains, shaking his head. "Granted, they were much larger then. Not nearly as sophisticated…"

I frown.

"I thought you were spell guy for Wolfram and Hart," I say, "not tech guy."

"I was." Dad glances at me, then looks back down. "I worked on a…well, it was more of a compound than a spell, I guess. Liquid invisibility. Never got it to work on anything much larger than this, but…" He trails off, looking at the little tracking device almost dreamily. Like he's reminiscing about the good old days.

But he catches himself, shaking his head is if to clear it.

"These are supposed to be coated in the spell before use," he continues, pulling the pliers slightly away from his face, turning them and dropping the metal into his hand. "If you're shot with one, you don't even know it's there."

Giles tilts his head, looking at the tracking device curiously. "And if you don't know it's there—"

"You don't know to remove it," I finish the train of thought, brow furrowing as I glance back over at Spike.

He's still resting against the table, little wisps of smoke still curling off his skin where the sparks had landed. If it hadn't started sparking, started malfunctioning, would we even know it was there?

I might have cleaned the wound like I'd been thinking about doing since we let the sewer, bandaged it up and Spike's super hero healing would have taken care of the rest.

And none of us would be any the wiser.

I turn my attention back to Dad. "Sounds like something out of a spy movie."

He nods, looking back at the tracker again.

"Who do you think we were testing it for?"

Something twists up in my stomach. It's one thing to hear from people that Dad used to work for the bad guys, but when he says things like that…it just feels weird.

I look at the tiny metal device in his hand; think about the uses people might have for needing untraceable tracking devices.

Special Projects.

Holland wasn't kidding when he'd told me they were more than a law firm.

"This one looks like it had a little malfunction," Dad's saying now, turning it slowly around with his fingertip. "Probably got wet in the sewer. Some wires got fried."

I wonder if that means it shorted out before now. If it had, maybe Holland hadn't had a chance to track where we were headed. Wolfram and Hart's been two steps ahead of us this entire time. We haven't been big with the break catching so far, but this would kind of be big one.

We're due for a big one.

"'S that way it feels like someone stuck a branding iron in my shoulder and wiggled it around?" Spike asks, turning hazy, narrowed eyes on the three of us.

His skin has finally stopped smoking.

"Lucky, really," Giles says, putting his glasses back on and giving Dad a meaningful look. "Probably wouldn't have known it was there otherwise."

"Yeah," Spike groans, pushing himself back up to a sitting position. "I feel real lucky."

"Were they tracking us this whole time?" I ask Dad, giving voice to the thought I'd had about maybe finally catching a break.

If they had been, then we need to move. Soon.

"Hard to say," he answers me, frowning. He crosses the room and sets the metal tracker down on the table. "I can't know exactly when it started shorting out."

I chew on my lip, thinking over what's been said. The wires got fried, which Dad said might have been due to getting wet when we landed in the sewer.

And something else had happened then, too.

"You said it felt weird," I say, turning to look at Spike. "In the sewer, you said it felt different."

He nods, but he's frowning.

"It did. Not quite like that, though," he murmurs, gesturing with a tilt of his head back toward his shoulder. "Bloody thing felt like it was burnin' me from the inside out."

I think it's the way he says it. Or maybe it's the look on his face. How worn out, how tired he seems to me suddenly.

Giles and Dad are still talking, discussing whether or not they think we're safe here for the time being.

But I've stopped listening.

I look down at Spike, at the creamy alabaster of the skin on his back, marred now by open sore he wouldn't have gotten if it hadn't been for me.

I don't think I've ever stopped to think about how unnatural this all must be for him.

Trying to keep me safe.

He'd told me that, back in Kansas City. And that's what he's been doing ever since. Long before we reached Wolfram and Hart, before Angelus, before Holland and the prophecy.

And now he's sitting at a table inside of a Watcher's secret apartment, surrounded by people who don't like him, certainly don't trust him. Going against everything he is, everything he'd repeatedly told me that he is. And why? For what?

Me.

The daughter of a slayer. The daughter of a slayer he fought, almost killed.

Because that's what's in his nature.

Not this. Not what he's doing now.

And I realize I've taken his affection for me very lightly. Letting the fact that he doesn't have a soul determine how much I'll let myself believe he can care for me.

I see how very tired he looks now, and all the adrenaline from tonight sort of feathers out of my body. Everything that's kept me going, constantly moving since that giant metal door opened earlier and he'd tackled that guard to the ground.

I melt into the chair beside Spike, reaching still slightly shaking fingers out toward the open wound on his back.

"Are you okay?" I ask softly, letting my fingertips press tenderly into his skin, not sure what it is I'm doing. Trying to do.

I just feel like I need to touch him.

Spike's eyes drift closed, and I worry for a moment that I'm hurting him. But then he leans into me, pressing the cool skin of his back up into my hand.

"'S nice," he murmurs, lashes fluttering open to look at me. He gives me a lopsided grin, tilting his head. "You think I'm a ponce now, don't you."

"Because you were all with the "owing?" I ask, a tiny smile curving my lips.

Spike mock glares at me.

I ghost my fingertips in a soothing circles around the wound.

"Never," I tell him honestly, turning my gaze from his to his back. "Do you need blood?"

Spike shakes his head, though the dazed look in his eyes kind of makes me think otherwise. "I'll be fine."

I nod. I won't push it, not now. I'll wait for later, when we can have some privacy.

When I look up I find two pairs of dubious eyes on me. Both Dad and Giles have somewhat puzzled looks on their faces, having stood by and silently watched the entire exchange.

"All right," Giles says, tearing his gaze away from me and looking back at Dad. "Maybe we should start from the beginning."

It takes a long time, but we finally get through most of the long-winded story. Everything from the beginning, even the parts I know Spike in particular would rather have me skip. We talk about how he found me. The list, the other girls, what Wolfram and Hart had offered him. We talk about where we travelled to; the bite (very briefly) and when we first started noticing things were different with me.

About being pursued by Angelus. When things had started to change.

The fight in the hotel, the plane. Arriving at Wolfram and Hart.

Of course, I don't tell them the whole story. I leave a few choice moments out.

Spike knowingly waggles his eyebrows at me when I do. It doesn't go unnoticed by the two older men across the table.

Normally, I'd probably find it pretty cringe worthy, but I'm sort of just glad he seems to be feeling better.

I'd asked Giles for bandages before beginning, wanting to take care of Spike's back before anything else. But now we're all seated around the dining table now, previously steaming mugs sitting in front of three of us, and a largish tumbler of amber colored liquid in front of Spike. Whiskey or scotch, I can't remember which.

Some of what we talk about is new to both Dad and Giles, a lot of the stuff from the beginning, which makes for interesting sidebars between the two of them.

When I finally get to the part of the story about Holland and the prophecy, things around the table get tense.

More specifically, things between Dad and Giles get tense. I'm not sure why, and neither of them comes out and says it, but it's obvious. They argue briefly, haltingly, amongst themselves for a few heightened moments before both turning their eyes back on me.

Giles clears his throat.

"You were coming here to find my father," he says, pushing his mug a little ways away from him. "I'll venture a guess that has something to do with the prophecy."

I nod.

"We were hoping he'd be able to read it," I tell him, dropping my gaze down. "I mean, I know what Holland told me it says. And I know what we think we read." I look at Spike, gesturing between the two of us. "But we don't…" I trail off, exhaling through my nose. "We were kind of hoping we'd be wrong."

Giles picks his glasses up off the table and pushes them onto his nose. "May I see it?"

"This is just the copy Holland gave me," I say, pulling the crumpled papers out of my pocket, open them up and spread them out, smoothing the wrinkles. Giles extends his hand across the table to take them from me. "It's practically gibberish."

"'S Latin," Spike supplies, leaning back in his chair. "Or some derivative of. I tried translatin' but I'm pretty sure I bollocksed it up."

Giles lifts his eyes to my vampire, staring at him over the rim of his glasses. Then he shifts the papers in his hand, gazes down at them. He's concentrating hard, brow furrowed as he flips from one page to another. Once. Twice. On the third read through, I'm starting to feel antsy. Beside me, Spike reaches over and puts his hand on my fidgeting knee. I shift my eyes over to his, and he winks.

He doesn't have to say what he's thinking for me to understand.

Everything's fine. We're safe here. We'll figure this out.

It's funny that knowing he believes that makes me almost believe it, too.

"Where did he say this was found?" Giles asks, drawing my gaze back to his as he lifts his head. His eyes are still narrowed, lips a thin line. "The Pergamum Codex?"

I frown.

Where had he said it'd been found? Pergamum...that doesn't sound right, but I can't remember. T. It started with a T.

"T...something," I try, shaking my head. "Ti...Tiburon…" I pause, chewing on my bottom lip. "Tiberio-"

"The Tiberius Manifesto," he interrupts me quietly.

I snap my fingers, tapping my finger against the tip of my nose. "That's the one."

There's a pause as Giles considers the papers in front of him one final time. Then he sighs, shaking his head. His eyes come up, first looking at me, then tossing a cursory glance at Spike.

"This isn't Latin," he says finally, spreading the papers out in order across the expanse of the tables. "Not exclusively."

It's something we'd already assumed, something Spike had told me so many times since first reading the text. But hearing it from the mouth of someone who knows, really knows, makes it feel like it matters.

Spike and I share a meaningful look, hope fluttering its little butterfly wings in my chest.

"What is it?" I ask, turning back toward him.

Giles puts his hands on the table, pushes himself to his feet so he can lean over the pages from a higher vantage point.

"This is...something else entirely. It looks like an amalgamation of some kind. I see three, maybe four different dead languages here."

What?

"What?" Spike echoes my thoughts, leaning forward in his chair, peering down at the text in front of us.

"Is this the version of the prophecy Holland showed you?" Giles asks, this time directing the question toward my dad. He's been sitting very still, very silent for the last fifteen or so minutes. Ever since he and Giles got tense over Holland. But he addresses all of us now, glancing down at the pages on the table, shaking his head.

"No," he says, looking first at me, then to Giles. "He showed me the translation."

This makes me pause.

Be kind, rewind.

"There's a translation of it?" I ask, turning wide eyes on Dad. Why hadn't he mentioned that before? When I'd told him we needed Richard to read it in the first place?

Wouldn't that have been a good time to say no wait, we don't need a translator; I've already read it?

"It's one of the first things they do with prophecies," he says, nodding. "Translate them and archive them."

This isn't making sense. Any of it.

More answers, more questions.

"I don't get it," I say, pushing myself to my feet, leaning over the table to look at the papers. I reach over, pick the middle page up and stare at it for a minute. Then, turning my eyes up to Spike's, "If there's a translation of this, why wouldn't he have just given me a translated copy?"

His eyes narrow, like he's realizing something for the first time.

He answers my question with another question.

"Why would he give you a copy at all?"

I stare at him, blinking.

It's another one of those questions I hadn't let myself think about. It hadn't made a lot of sense to me when he'd handed the papers to me, but I hadn't thought about it. I hadn't been thinking about anything other than what Holland had told me. Who I am. What Wolfram and Hart expected of me, wanted me for.

And then I'd asked Spike to read it, translate what he could. And all that had done was fill my head with fresh panic.

But why? Why had he given it to me? It isn't like he'd thought I'd be able to read it. And if what Giles has said is true, maybe it was never meant to be translated fully.

Four different dead languages.

"Is it the same?" I ask suddenly, turning back to Giles. "I get that the languages are wonky, but is the meaning there the same as what Holland showed Dad."

"Most of what I can decipher here matches what you told us initially, Hank." He takes the paper out of my hands, scanning the text again. "But other pieces...don't match up."

I blink at him, my heart skipping a beat. "Which pieces?"

Giles levels his gaze at mine. "The bits that were in Latin."

Latin. The only parts Spike could read. My vampire and I share another look.

The parts about me being unstoppable. No mortal hand. The parts about me bringing the apocalypse.

"So the Latiny parts aren't true?" I ask in a rush, gesturing wildly toward the pages.

Giles looks up at me, frowning.

"It isn't necessarily that those parts aren't true," he says slowly, cautiously, "just that they don't fit with what Hank was told originally."

"But it's possible right?" My hand instinctively goes toward Spike, and he takes it, squeezing.

Giles looks at me for a long, thoughtful moment, but finally nods his head.

Relief, warm and heady and the first I've felt in what feels like days, floods my veins.

"So...the part where I'm the big destroyer of the world?"

"What?" Dad asks, suddenly speaking up again. He looks at Giles, then down at the papers. "It says that?"

Spike clears his throat, standing up beside me.

Giles looks at both of us, then up to him. "More or less."

I realize we could have cleared a lot of this up in the sewers if I had just asked Dad, point blank, if that's what he'd been told. It seems silly now.

"Right then," Spike says, more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Now that we have that settled. Which parts do sync up?"

"Essentially, all the rest seems to fit." "Both pieces of the puzzle, the hand that took your mother's life and the discussion of your age, Buffy. They're here, as they were there initially." He looks to Dad for confirmation, who simply nods. "There's also mention of a weapon, fashioned from good and from evil, and the end of days. But it's the same vague reference your father mentioned to us before."

"So I am a weapon, then. That part matches up, too."

Dad looks meaningfully at Giles, who nods solemnly. "A very powerful one."

I bite down on my lip, considering this.

"But no world endage?" I ask after a minute, glancing around the table at all three of them.

Giles gives me a small, wry quirk of his lips. "It's the main puzzle piece that doesn't fit."

I nod. While it still feels huge. Huger than huge...kind of completely overwhelming, it doesn't seem quite so bad as it did before. Maybe because that seems less final...a weapon, even just a deciding factor in the end of days isn't the same as being one of the Four Horsemen.

"I don't know why Wolfram and Hart gave this to you, Buffy," he says, reaching up, removing his glasses and tossing them down onto the table. "But in short, I can say with some certainty what we're looking at is not a copy of the true prophecy."

"How can you be sure?" Spike asks, putting his knuckles down on the table and leaning forward, craning his neck toward the prophecy text.

Giles sighs, nodding his head toward the scattered papers. "Apart from the obvious mix of languages, and the strategic placement of Latin?" There's a definite note of sarcasm in his voice as he folds his arms over his chest. "If it came from Tiberius the original text would have been written in Sanskrit."

"So they manipulated the text on purpose," Dad says, coming to the conclusion at the same time as I nods gravely. "Appears that way."

So we know what they did. Just not why they did it.

So I ask.

"But why would they do that?" I look back and forth between Giles and my dad. "Just to scare me?"

Did Holland think scaring me would make me more cooperative? Some further threatening tactic, the same way he'd planned to use Dad. To use Spike.

But it doesn't make sense. Surely he must have known that couldn't work, that I'd rather be dead than be the big bringing of the apocalypse.

Seems like a big risk to take on his big weapon. On something he'd spent so many resources on.

My question seems to jar something, some distant memory or realization in Giles. He rifles through the pages again, like he's looking for something specific.

"I doubt it was to scare you." He picks up a particular page, turns his attention to Spike. " Is there any way they might've known about your ability to read Latin?"

My vampire blinks at him.

"Dunno," Spike says, turning to look at me. "'S not like I go around advertisin' it."

I think of all the things that had to have aligned perfectly for the prophecy to be fulfilled. All the things Wolfram and Hart manipulated into being.

"It's possible," I murmur, still focused on my vampire. What relief I'd felt a moment ago is slowly being pushed aside for a niggling feeling of fear in the back of my mind.

Across from me, Giles frowns, his eyes darting back and forth over the page in his hand. "I think the purpose of this was to confuse you, Buffy."

I'm starting to think that, too.

"But why?" I ask again, getting really sick of having to ask that question. "Confuse me for what reason?"

Again, it seems like they're two steps ahead of us.

"I don't know," he says, exhaling a long sigh. Then he pauses, brow furrowing. I can see the wheels turning in his head.

He looks up, first at me, then over to Dad. "Unless…" he trails off, setting the paper back down on the table. "Unless they wanted you to seek help."

And they'd known. They'd known exactly where we would go, who we would seek out for that help.

It hadn't even occurred to me before. I'm not sure why. Maybe with everything that's been happening I just hadn't stopped, hadn't let myself consider it.

"It wasn't safe here anymore, for any of us."

Wolfram and Hart hadn't just been after Mom and Dad eighteen years ago. Richard and his son, Giles. They'd been in danger, too.

"They've been in hiding for almost 20 years."

Somehow, they'd managed to live here that long, in the same place, and they'd never been found. My eyes shift down to the corner of the table, to the broken metal tracking device.

"You think they wanted us to come here?" Spike asks, incredulous.

Like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

But the whole thing is starting to take shape in my head.

I think about the fake prophecy, what Holland had said as he'd handed it to me. "You have a lot to think about." But he'd known how confused I was, known that I couldn't read it. Must have known I'd ask Spike about the text.

And that, too, hadn't even made sense to me at the time. Why he'd let Spike and I stay together, spend all that time alone. Given us time to talk, time to plan.

It would have been better for them to have separated us.

I think about the escape, how little threatening it took for that guard to tell us where Dad was. Sure, we'd had those guards to fend off...but even then.

It was too easy.

The crossbow bolt, the tracker...the reason no one followed us into the sewers. Spike's words from a moment ago ring in my ears, my head starting to swim.

They wanted us to come here?

"They let us out," I whisper, looking back up slowly.

And again that same question rattles around hollowly in my skull, reflected back to me in three pairs of differently shaded blue eyes.

Why?


	29. Chapter 27

Three pairs of equally wide eyes are on me now. I'm not sure at first who to focus on, but decide in the end for Spike, because he's the first to say anything.

"Pet?" He prompts, turning fully toward me.

"It's the only thing that makes sense," I explain, searching his face. "The tracker in your shoulder, not sending anyone out after us. Giving me a wonky version of the prophecy to show you."

Across the table, out of the corner of my eye, I see Giles nod. "And them knowing you would come here, looking for my father."

I shift my eyes away from Spike, back toward him. "Exactly."

My dad exhales slowly, looking back and forth between Giles and myself. Beside me, Spike shifts, folding his arms over his chest. When I look back at him, he has a strange expression on his face. Head tilted, eyes narrowed.

Bordering on something that feels suspicious, but not quite. More wary.

I get that feeling again, like there's something going on that everyone else knows about except for me. It's a feeling you'd think I'd be used to by now.

It isn't. And I'm not.

"But why would these sods let us out just so we could find you?" Spike asks, his eyes never leaving Giles's face.

He says it so intentionally, and when Giles chances a glance in the direction of my vampire, there's definitely something there. Some meaningful look that's passing between them. I can feel the tension there.

It doesn't last long, barely long enough for me to even register that it's happened, before Giles drops his eyes back down to the table.

"I'm quite certain they have their reasons," He says quietly, cryptically.

It sets my teeth on edge, and I'm instantly torn between the overwhelming desire to ask what the hell is going on here and knowing that now probably isn't the best time to dig into it. Who knows how much time we have, if that tracker had been active, if Holland could be sending people after us even now.

Logically, I understand it isn't the time to ask.

I do anyway.

"Which would be what?" I ask, mimicking Spike's pose beside me, folding my arms.

Giles turns steely blue eyes on me, studying the planes of my face. So intently, for a moment I'd swear he was trying to read some microscopic words etched into my forehead. The moment feels like it lasts forever, but can't be more than maybe a long second.

It's all with the big uncomfortable.

Then, without a word to any of us, Dad picks up Spike's empty tumbler of scotch and slams the edge of it down as hard as he can on top of the tracker, smashing it, sending tiny little sparks shooting out over the wood table.

The sound makes me jump.

"That's not important right now," he says, eyes trained on the still sparking remains of the device. I stare at it, too, wondering dimly why we hadn't just done that in the first place. "We need to move. We have no idea how long that tracking device was transmitting a signal." Dad looks up, turning toward Giles. "For all we know they could be on their way here right now."

Giles nods knowingly, seeming to snap out of whatever intense concentration he'd been subjecting me to before.

"Even so," he's saying now, "The spell should keep us hidden, buy us a little time."

He reaches down, picking the crumpled pseudo prophecy pages up off the table and gathers them together. "Buffy, can you tell me," I watch him fold the papers up, hand them back over to me. I take them. "Did anything strange happen while you were inside Wolfram and Hart? Anything, besides the escape, that felt…" he trails off, thinking about the words, "out of the ordinary?"

I look back at him, frowning. Out of the ordinary. Wolfram and Hart. God, I wouldn't even know where to begin. Nothing that happened in any of the time we'd been held in that building could be described as ordinary. Still, I rack my brain, trying to focus.

But it's Spike who's the first to speak.

"They took my blood," he murmurs, looking over at me, then back to Giles. "Made a big deal about needin' it, too."

I'd almost completely forgotten about that. I guess my head hadn't exactly been all present and accounted for when it was happening. I'd just come back from Holland's office, more than a little on information overload.

But that had been weird. How insistent Lindsey had been, that they weren't leaving the room until they got what they'd come for.

I nod absently, eyes focused somewhere just beyond Spike's shoulder.

"That's right," I say, forcing my eyes back to Giles. "They said they needed a sample of Spike's blood, and they were way pushy about it."

Giles frowns, like he'd been expecting to hear something and this wasn't it. He looks toward Dad, who looks just as lost as the rest of us, then back to me.

"Did they take a sample of yours as well?"

"No," I respond immediately, without thinking, "they never…" but then I trail off, thinking back over the time spent in that basement room, even before that. The plane. The hotel room. They'd knocked me out cold twice. Two separate times when they'd had the chance to do anything, take anything, and I have no way of knowing.

My eyes find Spike's first. I can see it on his face that he's realized the same thing I have.

He'd been out, too.

"I don't know," I murmur now, not sure why I feel like it's so significant that I don't. "They could have. I don't…" I shake my head, turning my gaze back to Giles. "I don't know."

"Well, that is...odd." He frowns, considering. "Can you tell me-"

"Ripper," Dad says warningly, cutting him off. "We don't have time for this."

Giles clears his throat.

"Right, well...first thing's first." He starts to move, walking quickly around the table and heading for what looks like a small closet. He yanks open the door, pulls out a bag and starts shoving various books into it. "We need to get our hands on the original prophecy text." He drops the bag onto the table with a dull thud, takes off in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen. "At this point, I'm extremely hesitant to trust anything Holland Manners has told either of you."

I turn to look at Spike just as he turns to look at me. He raises an eyebrow, glancing back over his shoulder toward the kitchen, the direction Giles has just disappeared in.

"And how are we supposed to do that, mate?" He calls after him, voice tense, a little incredulous. "If Holland's tellin' the truth, then this 'original text' is somewhere inside the belly of the beast."

Giles emerges from the kitchen, hands full of what look like several little bottles of some kind of ishy looking liquid and three long stick-like things. He's opening his mouth to respond to Spike, I can see the words forming even as I beat him to it.

"We have to go back in."

I hear myself say it, somehow managing to sound all at once more firm and much braver than I feel. I say we.

But I think it's more than obvious to everyone that what I'm really saying is I, because there's barely a beat before all three of them start speaking at once.

Giles. "Now, wait-"

Dad. "Buffy-"

And the loudest of all three is Spike. "What?"

It's his voice that I'm drawn to, instantly, a moth to a flame. Something in the tone of his voice, the deep growl. It feels like it commands me, pulls me to him above all the others.

He leans down toward me, coming into my personal space so he can drop his voice to a low whisper and still know I can hear him.

"Bloody hell, Buffy," he hisses, and I stare up into two raging eyes, watching the muscle in his jaw tic. "No. We just got you out of there." I can tell how much, how badly he wants to reach out and grab me. Put his hands on my shoulders, make sure I'm really hearing what it is he's saying. But he doesn't, and I'm grateful. I don't know if it's because he can read me, feel that it isn't the right time, or place. Still, the tone of his voice tells me everything. "There's no sodding way I'm lettin' you go back in."

Part of me warms instinctively to the possessive way he's speaking, the fierceness in his gaze as he looks at me. Something in me reacts so instantly, so viscerally to it.

But the other part of me feels the heat of hot and immediate frustration burning in my chest, rising up my neck, into my cheeks.

I narrow my eyes at him, dropping my voice down so low I'm certain only he can hear it.

"I'm not asking your permission."

His eyes flash, and I can see the muscles tensing in his shoulders, around his neck. "I know that." He steps a little closer to me, effectively blocking my view of anything other than his face. "If you were, you wouldn't get it."

My shoulders sag just the slightest bit, not defeated, but tired. Suddenly so, so tired. I take a deep, shaky breath in and exhale, the air blowing a piece of hair off my forehead.

"These guys have been three steps ahead of us this entire time," I tell him, voice still low but not as tense. "They still might be. We can't afford to sit around and wait for them to make their move, Spike."

He just stares at me for a long moment, and I watch as the hard lines around his eyes slowly start to soften. He blinks at me several times, and then the corner of his lips twitch like he's fighting the beginnings of a smile.

He steps even closer to me, raising his hand up between us to cup my chin.

"You're one stubborn chit, you know that."

My own lips twitch, but neither of us are actually smiling. "I think you've told me that before."

From somewhere behind Spike's shoulder, someone clears their throat. I can't tell from where I'm standing if it's Giles or Dad, until they speak.

"As much as I...hate to interrupt." It's Giles. "We have one small problem."

Spike drops his hand away from me and rolls his eyes, turning to face the two older men. "Oh, good," he quips sarcastically, "another one."

Giles is looking at both of us, unamused. He's dumped the bottles and the sticks on top of the table and is in the process of packing them in the bag now, along with what looks like several wooden crucifixes and a couple stakes.

It looks like we're going into battle.

"As I was trying to say before," Giles says, sounding a little annoyed as he zips the bag up with a practiced flourish. "Wolfram and Hart's archive department isn't here."

This makes me pause. I frown, confused, looking first at Giles, then Dad, then finally over to Spike.

None of them look as surprised as I feel.

Actually, none of them look all that surprised at all.

I frown deeper, shifting wary eyes back to Giles. "What do you mean, it isn't here. Holland said-"

"That this is special projects division," Dad cuts me off this time, not looking at me. "Yeah, it is." His eyes meet mine. "One of them."

I blink at him, repeating the phrase numbly. "One of them."

"Wolfram and Hart is a rather large operation, Buffy," Giles explains, repeating a shorter version of what Holland had begun to explain to me in his office. "This is only one, rather small, branch. The main archive department is separate."

"Okay," I say slowly, eyes scanning the room. "So it's separate. Where is it?"

The rooms goes very still, dead silent. No one makes a move to answer me right away. When I glance around the room now, everyone's eyes are down.

This crypto routine is getting old. Fast.

"Where is it?" I ask again, more sternly this time.

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike groans, looking back and forth between Giles and Dad with a frustrated expression. He turns to look at me. "It's in Los Angeles, luv."

The words register in a weird, distant way. I stare up at him, shaking my head.

Los Angeles.

Wolfram and Hart keeps their prophecy archives in L.A.?

Spike must see the distant confusion on my face, because he sighs.

"Remember when you asked me if New York was where Wolfram and Hart's headquarters were?"

It takes me less than a second to put two and two together. My mouth drops open, and I whirl away from Spike, back toward Dad and Giles.

My eyes are blazing, heat flushing my cheeks.

"You're telling me," I begin, the words gritted out through clenched teeth, "Evil Incorporated is literally less than three hours away from the place I grew up?" I look back and forth between the two of them, wild eyes searching their expressions. One sheepish, the other bordering on indignant. "That's where you geniuses thought I'd be safe?"

All this talk about keeping me hidden, trying to keep my safe. Safe from Wolfram and Hart who, apparently, were only a hop, skip and a jump away from me for the last eighteen years of my life.

If there's a reason for this, if there's a way that this makes sense, I'm not seeing it.

"Right under their noses," Spike mumbles quietly, almost under his breath. He shifts his eyes back to mine. "Sort of bloody brilliant, actually."

I toss him a scathing look, but I'm not sure if it's because I'd wanted him to agree with me or if it's because he thought of a reason I hadn't.

Maybe both.

"That was the idea," Giles grudgingly admits, eyeing Spike with a wary sort of acknowledgment. He turns his eyes to me. "As far away as we could get you from one, in the backyard of the other."

Dad looks at me seriously, his lips a tight line. "We had our reasons."

I think it's the way he says it. Like I should just accept it, shouldn't argue.

I glare at him.

"And kept me in the dark about all of them."

His brow furrows, but the line of his lips softens. "We were just trying to-"

"Keep me safe." I finish the sentence for him, waving my hand. "Yeah, I know."

I take a deep breath, turning my eyes up to the ceiling and putting my hands on my hips. I drum my fingers against the denim of my jeans.

"Okay, fine," I say, pursing my lips and leveling my gaze at Giles. "So why bring me all the way here then? It's not like they couldn't do everything they've done here right there in California…"

I trail off as I realize what I've said, who it is I'm looking at.

They could have done everything, absolutely everything, they've done to me back in the comfort of the home. Except for one.

Finding Richard, his son. They had to bring me here to do that. I think back to what Dad said to me in the sewers, about things needing to have aligned perfectly for the prophecy to come true. I think about everything that Wolfram and Hart has managed to orchestrate so far.

Even early on, when Spike had first told me about them. When I'd been frightened of them, of what they might do to me. I never imagined they'd go to such great lengths to get what they need.

I thought I was supposed to be the unstoppable one.

Beside me, Spike lets out a low, appreciative whistle. He tilts his head, eyes riveted on Giles. "You must be awfully important, mate," he says, echoing a version of the thought I've just had.

The older man nods, dropping his eyes over toward the packed bag on top of the table. When he speaks, his voice is very quiet.

"We all must be."

All four of us grow silent again, looking around the room. We're wasting time. Time we can't afford to lose.

"So this...Tiberius thingy," I say, drawing everyone's attention back to me, "with the prophecy, is somewhere in L.A."

Dad nods. "The archive department in the law office there."

I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. My hands are still on my hips as I meet each pair of eyes, landing finally on the twinkling azure of Spike's.

I always come back to Spike.

"Okay," I say firmly, tone brooking no argument. "I guess we're going to L.A."

Giles reaches up and removes his glasses.

"And how do you propose we get there?" He asks, gesturing with the spectacles in my vampire's general direction. "We can't exactly travel normally." He pauses, turning his gaze expectantly on Spike. "Unless-"

The vampire growls, taking an instinctive step forward. "If you think I'm lettin' you lot go anywhere without me, you're insane."

I shoot my hand out, wrapping it tightly around Spike's upper arms and squeezing, just a little harder than I intend to. A small flicker of pain crosses his features, and I loosen my grip immediately.

It's the first time I've witnessed my new strength cause him anything that resembles true pain.

I don't like it.

I rub my thumb over slightly over the spot where I've squeezed just once before dropping my hand all together, turning back to look at Dad. "Can't we just...get a Red Eye or something?"

It seems reasonable enough.

"And in the mean time?" Giles asks, placing his glasses back on his face.

I frown.

"Find a-a motel. Put up one of your cloaking spell things. Just for tomorrow, during the day…" I pause, doing the math in my head. "12 hours tops. Won't that hold?"

I watch as Dad considers my suggestion, folding his arms over his chest. He glances between me and Giles, tossing one cautious glance at Spike for good measure.

Then he sighs, nodding his head. "Between the two of us, we should be able to create something plenty strong for 12 hours."

Giles lifts the bag up off the table, slinging the strap over his shoulder. "I have supplies in here we can use."

I look at the bag, the bag he'd packed upwards of ten minutes before I'd even made the suggestion of finding a motel, putting a cloaking spell up around it.

He catches my eye. I nod at him.

He nods back.

"Okay," I say, leaning forward and snatching Spike's duster off the back of the chair behind me. "Let's go."

The four of us race are out the hidden door, racing back down the alley in a matter of mere moments. We pause for just a moment, long enough for Dad to look out and take a cursory glance around the alley, but apparently he doesn't see anything because he quickly waves us forward.

We head back the way we came, going immediately in the direction of the nearest Subway tunnel. I let Dad and Giles lead the way, staying close by Spike, keeping an eye on him as we speed our way down the now nearly empty streets.

We finally reach the subway, taking it down for several long minutes until we reach an exit that's outside the Tribeca area and considered safe by Giles.

None of us talks about the fact that we haven't spotted anyone that looks like they could be from Wolfram and Hart. I think maybe we're afraid to jinx it, like the minute one of us says something a horde of black clad men will come stumbling around the corner.

Whether we just made it out of Giles's apartment in plenty of time, or the tracking device in Spike's shoulder really had fizzled out long before we'd arrived there, I don't know. I don't care. All that matters to me is getting to a fixed location where we can wait out the next several hours.

When we finally do reach one, it isn't exactly the Waldorf, but it isn't exactly a Motel 6, either.

And it's in a different part of town, has available rooms for cheap and can get us into rooms that are side by side. So it's perfect.

What I'm not counting on, what I haven't even considered, is the fit that Dad throws once we reach our floor, standing outside the hallway in front of the two rooms.

"There's absolutely no way I'm letting you spend the night with her." He says coldly, jabbing a finger in my vampire's direction.

Spike smirks. "Technically, it'd be spendin' the day with her."

Dad's eyes flash, and I can see the muscles in his neck straining. I step between the two of them.

"It isn't like we haven't before," I say to Dad, only realizing what I've implied when both Dad's and Giles's eyes go wide. "Spent the night...err, day together." I insert quickly, hearing the words in my own ears, wincing a little.

Spike chuckles low in my ear behind me.

Way to make things worse, Buff.

"What I mean," I begin again, clarifying, "is that we've been traveling together for a while now. I'm...used to it."

It's a lame excuse, I know it. Flimsy. But the thought of not spending this extra time with Spike, the only alone time we might have for a little while, makes my skin feel too tight, my finger twitch.

It would be the first time in what feels like years that I wouldn't be in the same room with him while I sleep, and for some reason the thought just doesn't sit right with me. At all.

On top of that, there are things...things I want to tell Spike. Things I need to tell him.

"I have to agree with Hank," Giles speaks up now. "I'm not sure you two spending more alone time together can do anything to help our situation."

Spike growls. "What exactly are you implyin'?"

"I don't want to argue about this," I say quickly, voice firm. I look at Dad, making sure he sees exactly how serious I am, what it is I'm actually saying.

I'm not going to argue about this.

"I just want to put this spell up and I want to shower and get some sleep." I raise both eyebrows, widening my eyes. "Please."

Dad turns his gaze from mine to up behind my shoulder. He narrows his eyes dangerously. "If I think for one second," He hisses, "just one, that she's in any danger-"

My vampire's muscles grow tight, coiled as he leans forward toward Dad.

"I'm the last person you should be worried about hurtin' her."

"Oddly enough," Giles quips, lifting the shoulder strap off his shoulder and setting the bag down. "I'm inclined to believe him."

"Damn right you are," Spike growls.

I turn around just in time to see him whirling around, slipping the little key card into the door and storming into the room on the right, slamming the door shut.

I turn back to Giles and Dad, both of whom are looking at me with expressions that range from mildly disgusted to confused.

"He's not going to hurt me, "I say, looking back and forth between the two of them. "He wouldn't."

Dad shakes his head, exchanging another look with Giles before turning to look back at me.

"Can you blame me for not trusting him?" He asks, searching my eyes with his.

I take a deep breath, exhale through my nose. "Has he given you any real reason not to?"

Giles clears his throat, turning his eyes down toward the ground.

I know what he's thinking, can see it written all over his face. Exactly why he in particular doesn't trust Spike.

And I'm not an idiot. I know there's still something between him and Spike, something besides what I've been told, something they both feel like keeping from me.

Something I'm hoping maybe finding the original prophecy text might shed some light on. But I can't bring it up with him now, not with Dad here.

I don't want to give him any more reason to dislike my vampire. More than he already does.

"I'll just...get started on this." Giles is saying now, indicating the bag of supplies in his hand. He turns toward the motel room door on the left and vanishes inside.

"Look," I begin, reaching out and taking one of Dad's larger hands in mine. "I don't...understand everything that's happening with me. I don't think any of us will get the whole story until we can see what the original text says." I sigh, squeezing his hand once before dropping it again. "But if you would just make an effort with Spike...that would be really helpful."

Dad shakes his head, frowning at me. "He's a vampire, Buffy."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "I know what he is, Dad."

I think he's about to say something else to me, I'm not sure what, when the door pops open beside us and Giles sticks his head out.

"Sorry to interrupt." He looks briefly at me, then directly to my dad. "Hank, everything's ready for you. I think it would be wise to finish the spell sooner rather than later."

Dad offers me a strained little smile, leans forward and presses a little kiss to my forehead. I have a feeling the conversation we started isn't over, but I don't think tonight's going to be the night we finish it.

Probably for the best.

He steps around Giles and into the motel room, leaving me standing alone in the hallway facing one closed door and the other still cracked open.

Giles clears his throat, drawing my attention up to his eyes. He leans further out into the hallway, speaking quietly.

"I know you have a lot on your mind, Buffy. There are so many things going on here, things we still don't know, or completely understand." There's a short pause as his eyes search my face, grey-blue burning deeply into mine. "Just...promise me you won't do anything rash."

I stand there, blinking at him.

He's clearly trying to convey something to me without saying it, but I can't quite read what it is from behind his glasses.

I'm about to say something, I'm not entirely sure what, when I hear Dad holler for Giles on the other side of the door. He gives me one last, long look, then nods as if to say goodnight and disappears back into the room, letting the door fall shut.

I stand in the hallway, feeling more than a little confused and whole lot of wigged. After several more moments, I turn toward the room Spike had disappeared into earlier, reaching up and knocking on the hollow wood veneer.

No answer.

Frustrated, feeling more than a little exposed standing in the narrow hallway by myself, I reach up and knock again.

There's a much briefer pause this time, and then Spike answers.

Dripping wet, obviously freshly showered, one towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand, drying his tousled platinum curls.

I blink at him, a little stunned.

"Sorry, pet." He steps aside, opening the door up wide enough for me to step inside. "Didn't hear you knockin' the first time."

I take a step in, passing by him, feeling the steam rolling off his cool skin as I do, the fresh scent of soap strong in the air. I hear the click of the door falling back in place and turn back to face him. He finishes drying his hair and tosses the towel over the back of a small desk chair, running one hand through the bleached locks to smooth the curls back.

My mouth goes dry.

I can't remember the last time I got so tongue tied around Spike. My God, after everything we've been through together you'd think it'd be impossible for things to feel this...awkward.

Because that's what it is. Awkward.

I'm hyper aware of his near nakedness, hyper aware of the two men in the room beside ours. Of the way my fingers itch to reach out and touch him, wipe the little droplets of beaded water off the curve of his shoulders.

But I can't do that. For lots and lots of super good reasons.

Can't.

"So," I say, cupping the back of my neck with my hand.

Spike smirks at me, raising one eyebrow. "So?"

I had something to say, something to tell him. It's right there on the tip of my tongue as I open my mouth, and then-"How's the water pressure?"

Oh, God.

I can practically feel my cheeks flooding with heat, turning red.

Spike's smirk widens. I can see the very tip of his tongue curling up behind his top teeth, barely visible.

I swallow again.

"You really want to know, pet?" He asks, giving a tiny flick of his head in the direction of the bathroom. "Shower's right over there."

"Right," I say, going for breezy but it comes out breathless instead. I clear my throat. "Right, I'll just…" I point back over my shoulder, toward the bathroom.

He nods, still smirking at me.

I turn on my heel and disappear into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. I hurriedly yank the shower curtain into place, leaning down to turn the faucet on, all the way over to hot. I don't wait for it to get completely finished heating before I jump in.

Things are awkward between me and Spike. They're awkward, and I know why, and I don't want them to be.

I still haven't said it. I've thought it, wanted to say it. But it was never the right time.

And now…now what?

I close my eyes, leaning my head back into the spray, letting the warm water soak into my hair, down my face as I think about what to do. What I want to do, what I should do. Whether or not those are the same thing.

Whether or not it matters.

So much has happened. So many questions answered, so many more brought up. Isn't that what Giles had said to me outside, pointed out how much we still honestly don't know.

"Don't do anything rash."

Would telling Spike be considered something rash? Is that what he'd meant?

I'd been so determined, so sure when I'd been arguing with Dad out in the hallway that saying it was the best thing to do.

And we're safe now, I reason. As safe as we possibly can be, in this city at least. We've distanced ourselves from the tracker, have a plan to get to L.A. in place. Dad and Giles are putting a protection or cloaking or whatever spell on the rooms even now.

And who knows how long we will be. Safe, that is. All four of us. Once we get back to California, we'll be dealing with a whole new evil law firm type beast. Trying to find a way inside, a way to get into that archive department. Who knows how dangerous that'll be, what could happen.

Who knows when the next time is I'll get this kind of alone time with Spike.

It has to be now.

I finish scrubbing, hurriedly use the mini bottles of shampoo and conditioner to get my hair as clean as I can and turn off the shower. I jump out, grab a towel off the rack and wrap it around my body, not bothering to dry the little droplets of water still streaming off my hair, running down my back and legs as I fling open the bathroom door.

Spike is sitting on the edge of one of the queen beds when I enter the main room, towel still draped around his waist, head in his hands. As soon as he hears me enter, though, his head snaps up, indigo eyes finding mine immediately.

I don't know what he sees on my face, but it's enough to make him get to his feet, brow furrowing as he looks at me.

"What's wrong?"

I shake my head, feeling strands of heavy, damp hair whip across my bare back. Spike takes a step closer to me, tilting his head to the side.

I take a deep breath, hold it in, and then exhale.

"I love you," I say, my voice coming out as barely more than a whisper.

Spike stops, going dead still as he looks at me. His eyes are deep navy now, narrowed slightly as they search my face.

"What?"

He isn't asking because he didn't hear me.

It's my turn to take a step closer to him, keeping my eyes riveted on his. I take another breath, repeating the words a little louder this time. "I love you."

I watch Spike's Adam's Apple bob slightly as he swallows once, hard, watching me intently. He's still standing perfectly still in front of me.

"You love me."

It's the same thing I'd said to him before, in the vault room at Wolfram and Hart, when he'd first said the words to me. And he says it so softly to me now, so tentatively. Like if he says it any louder the words won't be true, won't mean anything.

I just nod, unable to keep the tiny quirk of a smile off my lips.

He crosses to me quickly then, a blur of bleached curls, alabaster skin and fluffy white towel, until he's standing directly in front of me. Both of his strong hands gently cup either side of my face, his eyes open and earnest and hopeful as they burn down into mine.

And he's so beautiful. So insanely beautiful, soft and sharp, vulnerable and strong, light and dark. Everything, all of it, all at once. An exquisite contrast.

He sweeps my cheek with the pad of his thumb, threading the fingers of his other hand into my damp hair.

"Say it again," he whispers, and the ghost of a smile curves his lips.

I press my cheek more firmly into his hand, feeling how cool and soft his skin is against mine, and inhale deeply. Even through the scent of soap, the smoky leather smell is still there. Like it's etched permanently into his skin after so many years, as much a part of him as his stormy eyes and tongue curling smirk.

"I love you, Spike," I whisper back, watching as those stormy eyes visibly brighten when the words pass my lips.

I'd say it again, as many times as he asks me to. A million and one times, if only to see him look at me the way he's looking at me now.

I open my mouth to do just that, but he moves faster than I do, covering my mouth with his and swallowing the words before I can even form them. His one hand winds deeper into my hair, the other sliding down from my cheek to my neck, over the curve of my shoulder, to the place where I've knotted the towel around my body.

As soon as I feel him tug on it my eyes snap open, my hand coming up automatically to cover his before the towel can come loose.

"What are you doing?" I ask, wide eyes whipping back and forth between him, the door to our room and the wall that separates us from Giles and Dad.

Spike catches my chin with his hand, gently turning my eyes back to his.

"What's it look like?" He asks, brushing his thumb over the curve of my bottom lip. He reaches down and unwraps the towel from around his own waist, letting it fall to the floor in a white heap at his feet.

I swallow hard, refusing to look, keeping my eyes trained on his.

"Spike, no," I hiss, dropping my voice down to a low, panicked whisper. "W-we can't have sex here." My eyes dart back to the separating wall. "Not now."

He exhales a little sigh, using the hold he still has on my chin to draw my gaze back to his.

"I don't want to have sex, Buffy."

I blink at him, confused. "You don't?"

"No," he says, gently running his hand over the back of my head, re-tangling it in the slightly wavy strands. "Just want to love you."

I frown, still not quite understanding. And more than a little distracted by his obvious nakedness, which is getting harder and harder to avoid looking at.

Spike chuckles softly at the look on my face, then leans in, cool breath fanning delicately over my lips.

My eyes flutter closed.

"Please, sweetheart," he murmurs, rubbing the tip of his nose softly against mine. Our lips are bare millimeters away from one another's. "Let me make love to you."

I melt against him, my legs going a little shaky as I press my lips to his. I can feel the tension, the desire pouring off him, gathering me up in his arms and letting my towel fall away from my body.

The sensation is what does me in. Lengths of smooth, uninterrupted skin pressing intimately against each other. Mine hot, heated and flushed to his cool, like marble underneath my fingertips, splayed across the muscles of his chest. And it doesn't matter anymore. None of it. Not the fact that my hair is still dripping little rivulets of water down my back. Not the fact that my father is right next door. Not the fact that we're still in New York, possibly being pursued by the evil lawyer and his lackeys.

The only thing I can taste is this, right here. A stolen moment. Maybe the last one we'll see for a while.

And I want to take it. Hold onto it. Make it last.

I slide my hands up from his chest, wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer against me. He mimics me, draping his arms tightly around my back, holding me to him. And then in one swift, far too graceful movement, he spins us around and falls back onto one of the beds.

I land on top of him far less gracefully, legs splayed across his hips, cradling Spike's head between my hands and the mattress.

I laugh a little into his mouth, he's still kissing me deeply, and struggle to pull myself away from him. Not far away, just enough that I can see his gaze, tickle his nose with mine. He stares up at me with the same gentle, awed expression from before, his eyes dark with lust.

"Somethin' the matter, luv?" He asks me, voice very low. He raises an eyebrow. "Change your mind, did you?"

I look down at him, studying the planes of his face.

"I'm on top of you," I murmur softly.

Spike smirks, lifting his head off the mattress to nip at my bottom lip gently.

"So I noticed," he growls playfully, wiggling his hips underneath me.

I tilt my head to the side, being careful to keep my eyes in direct contact with his.

"You said you were going to make love to me," I whisper, my own voice low and huskier than I imagined it could be.

Spike's body stills beneath mine, and I watch his pupils visibly dilate, the azure of his irises all but disappearing as he stares headily up at me.

"That I did," he agrees hotly, then wraps his arms more tightly around me and flips us around again so I'm pinned lightly between the length of his body and the mattress.

I cradle him between my legs, fighting the instinctive urge to arch my hips up into him. I feel my inner muscles tighten in anticipation.

But he doesn't move, doesn't press forward like my body's calling out for him to do.

Instead, he stays very still. Leaning over me, both hands on either side of my head, looking down at me with this incredible, fierce mix of undiluted desire and love and I can't stop myself from reaching up, laying my palm against the razor edge of his cheekbone.

"I love you," he whispers, turning his head into my hand, kissing the tip of my thumb.

I smile up at him, feeling the exquisite, excruciating pressure of having him there, but just barely, between my legs. Knowing the promise of what comes next. Needing it, craving this physical connection with him in a way I can't remember needing it before.

"I love you, too," I whisper back.

And then he thrusts inside of me, all the way in, and the world starts to spin a little faster. I drop my hand from his cheek, gripping the curve of his shoulder, digging my nails into the skin there as I arch my back up.

When he begins to move, the pace is slow. Almost unbearably, but so sweet, so gentle.

So different than the first two times, which had been driven by white hot need, frenzied and urgent. Each time before had been presupposed by violence. Sparring in the back alley in Columbus, the fight we'd had when I'd tried to provoke him in the hotel room in Cleveland. Both times had been spurred by the violent, primal urge to possess. To own.

And so, in a way, is this.

The need, the desire is there. It's still raw.

But it somehow feels completely different, and not just because the pace is so much slower. Spike keeps our rhythm steady, deliberate. I can feel every inch of him when he leaves my heat, feel how desperately my body tries to reclaim him when he slowly pushes back inside. And each time, each luxurious movement of his hips, he strikes a chord somewhere deep inside me. The little bundle of nerves that send rolling waves of pleasure jolting through me, making me bite down on my lip to keep from crying out each time.

It's a slow burn, too. The building, familiar rising heat that starts somewhere just below my belly button and fans hotter, higher, until it's spreading to the very tips of my toes.

All the while he's looking at me, glazed, black eyes shifting slightly, swirling yellow with the effort of keeping up the languorous pace.

When I start to feel it, the tell-tale spasm of my inner muscles, the tightening in my stomach, I let out a loud, involuntary moan.

Spike immediately brings his hand up, places it firmly but gently over my lips.

"Shh, pet," he whispers tensely, voice low, very strained with the effort. "Gotta be quiet."

I nod quickly, rolling my hips more urgently in time with his. He removes his hand and I return to biting down, hard, on my lip.

When my inner muscles give a sudden, quick clench, Spike gasps out a strangled, "Oh, Christ." And I come with a muffled cry, the tip of my right canine slicing through the soft flesh of my bottom lip as I throw my head back, eyes fluttering closed.

My vampire follows me over barely a moment later, smashing his mouth over mine, muffling his own cry of release.

Every muscle in my body is Jell-O as I lay beneath him, nails still digging into his shoulders, feeling his muscles twitch beneath my hands. He continues to pump his hips a few more times, still kissing me slowly. I can taste it on his tongue as it tangles with mine. The coppery, metallic flavor of my blood.

It's a little bit sweet.

"I was scared," Spike says a little while later. We're dressed now, sort of, and laying underneath the covers of the bed we'd made love on earlier.

He has one hand entwined with mine, the other tracing little patterns with his fingertip over the back of my hand. His eyes are focused on the spot where he's touching me.

I'm looking at his face, watching his profile. "When?"

He shifts his eyes briefly up to mine, then quickly back down again.

"Inside Wolfram and Hart. Every time they took you out of the room. Reading the prophecy before the escape. After. In the sewer tunnels." He shakes his head, chuckling darkly. "You name it, luv."

I frown at him. "You didn't act scared."

With the exception of the one time in the vault room, after reading the prophecy. After telling me he loved me for the first time. I'd told him if he meant that, then he'd do what I asked and kill me. He'd asked me then, about feeling sorry.

Had it been less about feeling sorry and more about feeling afraid?

"No," he says, chuckling breathily, "can't very well look it, can I? S'posed to be the Big Bad and all."

He sighs, shifting back on the bed. "But things have been...different. Since I bit you." He shakes his head, looking up at me. His lips quirk sheepishly. "You're not the only one who's been changin'."

I shift further onto the bed, too, mirroring his pose, propped up against the pillows.

"What do you mean?" I ask, feeling my eyelids starting to grow heavy with sleep.

I fight to keep them open, but I'm sure Spike sees how much effort it's taking because he gives me a small, sideways grin and reaches out to brush a wavy strand of hair behind my ear.

"Dunno really," he murmurs, "just know I've been...feelin' more. Differently, since the night I bit you. Slowly at first, so slowly I don't think I bloody noticed it at all until…" He trails off, exhaling. He glances down at our hands again. "What's happenin' with us, pet, it isn't a claim. It can't be without the proper ritual involved." His eyes meet mine again, back to a stormy, glistening indigo. "But this connection we have, the thing I started in you. I think it might...go both ways."

I tilt my head to the side, fighting off a yawn. "You mean, like...I'm connected to the demon, and you're-"

"Connected to you...your humanity, maybe. Your..." He trails off, shakes his head again. "I...I dunno. But I'm wonderin' if that isn't somethin' we can't find out when we get our mitts on the genuine article."

I nod, only dimly registering what it is he's saying to me. I think it might be really important, but the haze of sleep and satiety is making it hard for me to focus.

I stifle another yawn.

"Mmhm," I murmur, "kind of hoping we can fill in a lot of these gaps when we get our mitts on that."

Spike reaches toward me, scooping his arm underneath me and lifting me up, pulling my back against his chest. "You should sleep, sweet," He murmurs softly, lips tickling my ear. "'S gonna be a long night."

I let myself yawn this time. "What time is it?"

"Just after sunrise, give or take."

"Are you going to sleep?" I ask, the words slurring just a little.

"I will," he purrs softly, breath tickling the strands of hair around my ear, "in a little while."

I nod, yawning again.

I close my eyes and shift down onto the pillow of his chest, his lips still at my ear, and I fall asleep to the quiet, low sound of his humming something that sounds a lot like a lullaby.

I dream.

In my dream I see a wild, raging river. I'm standing on one side of the river's edge, looking into the water. Spike stands on the other side, shirtless, completely still, looking back at me.

And the longer I stare into the water, the clearer it becomes.

It isn't swirling, dark water at all. It's blood.

I tear my gaze away from the river, focus on the vampire in front of me.

His eyes glow golden.

Mine glow red.


	30. Chapter 28

Getting to the airport, and through airport security, is shockingly easy. Or maybe not so shockingly, since none of us, including Giles now, has any luggage.

We'd left the motel just before sunset, Spike having assured me over and over again that the dim light of dusk posed no real threat to him, and had navigated back to the subway tunnels.

The only real snag we'd come across had to do with the fact that, of the four of us, the only one with a proper photo I.D. on hand was Giles. When Spike had smirked and instantly responded with a wry, murmured "I know a guy" my first instinct had been to remind him of what happened the last time he'd known a guy.

In the end, I'd bitten my tongue. No good could have come from admitting to Giles or Dad that part of the reason we'd ended up getting caught by Wolfram and Hart in the first place was because he'd trusted the wrong person.

Err, demon.

And, as it turned out, he did know a guy. And a pretty efficient one at that. The man, some slimy looking NYU drop out by the name of Warren, managed to put together false documents and fake I.D.'s for Spike, Dad and myself in only about an hour's time. His entire, tiny walk up apartment had been retro fitted to the task.

"It's a quick way to make cash," he'd told me as he'd snapped an unfairly attractive photo of Spike for his I.D. "Plus, it's a good way to meet girls."

He'd winked at me, and I'd been momentarily concerned for his safety as three pairs of eyes had turned disdainfully toward him.

I'd been equal parts flattered and annoyed. After all, if I'm supposed to be some sort of weapon of mass destruction, I figure I can handle myself against one smarmy little man.

When I'd told Spike just that as we were leaving, he'd had the decency to look a little sheepish.

It hadn't stopped him from flashing a little fang at Warren as we'd left, though.

Giles indicated more than once on our way to the airport that he would have preferred to use La Guardia, as it was smaller and less conspicuous, but he'd thought we'd have a better chance at finding a non-stop Red Eye from JFK.

So that's where we find ourselves now, sitting in a row of chairs side by side at gate C12, waiting to board our 11:45 p.m. flight to LAX.

"If I've calculated correctly," Giles says absently, settling his small leather bag down beside him, "we should arrive in Los Angeles with about 50 minutes until sunrise."

Dad leans forward slightly, pressing his forearms into the tops of his legs, looking around Spike and toward me, pointedly ignoring the vampire. "Just enough time to get out and find a place to hole up for the day."

Giles again. "Precisely."

The two older men have been a little on the distant side tonight. Not avoidy, but careful, like they're watching every word they say. I'd wondered distantly early on if they'd maybe heard Spike and I in the other room, or if maybe they just felt that unsettled by the fact that I'd seek to spend time with a vampire even after I didn't have to anymore.

Or maybe it's that secret I can tell everyone's working so hard to keep from me.

I don't know. But whatever it is, no one seems in any big hurry to share with the class.

It's on the very tip of my tongue to just come out and ask, but the fear that had been there last night, that I don't want to reveal too much of just how exactly Spike and Giles know each other.

So I decide to drop it, push it to the back of my head.

For now.

"Sounds like a plan," I say, nodding absently as I look over at Spike.

He's seated beside me, legs casually resting with his knees apart, one elbow propped up on the back of the chair behind him.

He always manages to look so cool, so comfortable, like he belongs anywhere. Even when all he does is stand out.

Even now, I can feel people's eyes on us. On him. Both men and women sitting in the terminal with us, casting sideways glances at my vampire when they think that no one's looking.

For some reason, I feel instinctively protective. Maybe even a little jealous.

Territorial.

I subconsciously shift closer to him, leaning my shoulder into his and twisting my fingers into the leather duster folded across my lap. Spike glances at me, frowning.

"What's the matter?" He murmurs, voice low enough that I'm sure only I can hear him.

"Nothing," I murmur back, voice just as low.

He responds with the raise of a scarred eyebrow.

I sigh, dropping my eyes down to the ground. This mind ready thing is going to get old.

"People are staring," I say, casting a quick glance at the people in question that are scattered around us.

Spike follows the line of my gaze, sweeping narrowed, azure eyes around the room. His lips twitch.

"So they are," he says, turning to look back down at me. "Botherin' you, pet?"

I frown. "Does it bother you?"

After all, it isn't me they're staring at.

Spike chuckles, adjusting so both his elbows are back, propped against the seat behind him. He leans back. The movement lengthens his body, exposing the smallest bit of creamy skin and fine, dark hair just above the waistband of his jeans.

He smirks at me. "Not one bloody bit."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "You're nothing but trouble," I murmur, tossing his duster onto his lap, covering the exposed skin. "You know that?"

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing my through his lashes. I watch as his eyes shift from playful to smoldering. The smirk still on his lips, he shifts up in the seat, leaning closer to me, coming to stop with his face only inches from mine.

Staring at me like we're the only two people in the room. On the planet.

"And you love me anyway," he whispers, grazing the tip of his nose over mine, inching his lips toward mine.

I forget for a moment that we're in public. That people had been staring before, and most certainly probably are now.

That Giles and Dad are sitting right beside us.

I let my eyes fall shut, waiting for the pressure of his lips against mine.

But then he quickly pulls away from me and my eyes shoot open, blinking at him as he slumps back down into his seat.

I narrow my eyes, feeling my cheeks flushing hot.

"You just keep testing that theory," I warn him, but there's no real threat in my voice. I've been finding it exceptionally difficult to stay frustrated with him at all today, despite his numerous attempts at trying to rile me up.

I've actually begun to suspect that it's some sort of game he's playing with me, to see where exactly the new line is, now that I've told him I love him. Sitting here though, in the airport, getting ready to leave New York and the memories of Holland in the dust, at least for a little while, it's proving to be pretty difficult for him.

I shift back into my own seat, fiddling with the boarding pass in my hand, looking out from under my lashes toward where Giles and Dad are talking in low tones about something. Maybe money, when Dad's going to pay Giles back for the tickets.

If either of them have noticed the little display between Spike and I, which I'm almost positive they have, neither of them says anything.

Thankfully.

"Does this feel weird to you?" I ask twenty or so minutes later after, gesturing around the plane's interior, to the crisp leather seats and the bustling flight attendants hustling down the tiny aisle. We'd boarded the plane without much incident, other than a couple weird, meaningful looks between Giles and my vampire that I hadn't been able to really get a grip on, but I'd made a mental note to ask Spike about later.

Because the crypto thing has to end at some point.

I turn toward Spike, watching as his eyes follow the line of my hand, looking around the plane, gaze lingering just a second too long on the emergency exit.

After a minute, I feel him shrug.

"Not really," he says, turning to look back at me. His lips twitch in the beginnings of a smirk. "Live long enough, nothin' seems particularly weird anymore." Then he pauses, considering, and cocks his head to the side. "Ask me again when we're actually in the air."

I frown, looking down at the little armrest in between us.

"It's just...weird. To me," I explain, reaching down and tightening the little buckle across my lap. "24 hours ago we were in some smelly sewer tunnel running for our lives, and now we're on an airplane...going back to where we started."

I consider the gravity of what it is I've just said.

Literally, back to where we started. Literally and metaphorically and whatever other –ally's I'm sure this qualifies for.

I wonder dimly if this was what it was like when Dad brought me to California the first time, all those years ago. Escaping in the middle of the night, from the same people, going to the same place, for almost the exact same reason.

Just...with a Watcher and a vampire in tow.

"Probably worse for your old man and the Watcher than me," he says, echoing a slightly different version of the thought I'd just had. "One of 'em hasn't even been out of Tribeca in eighteen bloody years."

I twist around in my seat, glancing several rows behind me, to find both Dad and Giles wrapped up in whatever conversation they feel free to have now that I'm out of earshot. Giles looks angry, and Dad looks like he's not doing a whole lot to try and calm him down.

It had been an issue, initially, when I'd expressed my desire to sit beside Spike on the plane. Not quite as much of a scene as the night before in the motel, but still not something I'd want to repeat. And definitely not in public. I'd eventually won out, with little to no help from Spike, who'd decided the best way to alleviate the situation was to cut himself out of it completely and pretty much ignore the two older men as they'd bickered with me.

We'd probably made quite the sight. Three grown men and me, snipping back and forth in low tones, tossing around words like "blood sucker" and "prophecy" and "bite mark", and all sorts of other things that, if I'd bothered to care, would have sent my cheeks blushing to superhero cape levels of red.

I guess it's no wonder people are still staring at us.

Doesn't mean I'm not all with the majorly fed up with it.

I twist back around and tighten my seatbelt again, leaning down to glance out the darkened window, reaching up to twist open my little personal air vent. Fidgeting.

I'm as bad as Spike.

"Nervous, luv?"

I turn my eyes toward the vampire beside me, fixing him with a hard look. "I don't like planes," I tell him, tightening the belt again, my hands shaking just the tiniest bit as I hear the muffled sound of the Captain over the intercom. Deep and gravelly, with the hint of an accent. Maybe Texas?

Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.

"You wanna play a game?" He suggest, drawing my eyes back toward his. "Take your mind off it?"

And he's smirking at me, rolling his tongue up behind his teeth. That devilish gleam is in his eye. The same that's been there all day, ever since we'd woken up this afternoon.

"Tell me again," he says, purring it into my ear, his hands warm against the curve of my waist. Warm because they'd held me all night, soaked in my body heat.

I lean into him, resting my head in the crook of his neck and trailing my fingertips down his bare chest. Every inch of him is so strong, so smooth.

I tilt my chin up, propping it against his collarbone.

"I love you," I murmur, feeling the words all the way down to my toes as they leave my lips.

There's a short pause.

And then Spike slips his arms around my waist, rolling me over with a low, playful growl until the length of his body is over mine, pinning me down into the mattress. He looks down at me with this impossible expression, like the world was on its side, all wrong, and now suddenly everything's right again.

Like I make everything right again.

And I can't keep the smile off my lips.

"Again," he whispers, leaning toward me, nipping at the curve of my throat. His teeth graze the spot where his faded bite mark is, and a sharp tingle shoots all the way down my right side. I shiver beneath him, but manage to say it again.

Spike drops down to his elbows, boxing me in on either side of my head, and kisses me. Short and sweet, both our lips just slightly parted, and then he pulls away from me again.

"I love you," he says, indigo eyes fixed on mine, the tips of our noses almost touching. He nods against me. "I do."

And I'm not sure why, but in this moment, I almost feel like he's convincing himself.

But the moment passes when he rolls over onto his back, taking me with him, splaying me across his chest. He tangles one hand in my hair and kisses me again, deeper this time, and I completely forget whatever it is I'd just been thinking.

"A game." I say flatly, eyebrow raised. "Somehow I don't think that'll help."

Not to mention how inappropriate it feels.

We've gotten this far, it's true. We're on our way to finding information, real information, about what exactly's been going on here. What it is Wolfram and Hart really needs us all for, why they used me to come after Giles.

We're on a plane, L.A. bound, and this entire night feels way too much like an actual trip to me already without adding in games.

No matter what kind they are.

It's almost comical, how much Spike's calm, cool and collected game face shifts as soon as the plane leaves the ground. He leans back into the seat, eyes closed, both hands gripping so tightly to the arm rests beside him that I'm afraid he'll actually snap them off.

Not that I blame him. I told him the truth when I said I don't like planes.

I've never been a fan of planes.

Until waking up on the floor of Wolfram and Hart's jet a few days ago, I hadn't been in one in years. Never had a reason to, with any traveling I'd done being super minimal.

Even with my obvious dislike for aircraft, it doesn't seem to be much compared to Spike's, though he does seem to visibly relax when takeoff ends and the plane levels out.

"You okay?" I ask, studying his face as he slowly opens his eyes.

"Sodding flyin' death traps," he mumbles, repeating the phrase he'd said to me the last time we'd been airborne. He tentatively loosens his hold on the armrests, turning to look at me. "Humans were not meant to leave the bloody ground."

"You aren't human," I tease him, searching his eyes with mine.

He smirks, and I see his shoulders relax a little more.

"Bloody right I'm not," he agrees, leaning his head back into the cushion behind him and closing his eyes again. "Thank God for that."

And he says it like he really means it, like being a human is so horrible. Or maybe just being a human for him was so horrible.

It's something we haven't really talked about. Not really, not after the last night either of us had ever mentioned William.

Still, it makes me think. It reminds me of the thought I'd had, all those days ago, the first time he'd mentioned he might be having real feelings for me. Again, the first time he'd told me he loved me.

That what he's feeling can't be the same as what I'm feeling. That we experience love, emotions, differently. That maybe what he feels are just echoes, memories of what it's like to have them for real.

Memories from when he was human.

When he'd told me he loved me, I'd believed him. I'd believed him because he believed it. And I think he does. I'd seen it on his face, in his eyes, all day today. Before today, even. Hell, before he'd even said it to me out loud.

I'd seen it.

Even more so now that I've said it back.

But I'd had the thought then, and I find myself having it again now.

No soul. Spike doesn't have a soul. It's something he's told me time and time again, something he's almost sounded proud of in the past. No remorse, no guilt. Having no soul is freedom. It's what he'd told me. Evil, soulless demon. How many times have I heard him say that?

How do you love someone without a soul? I find myself wondering it now, hating myself for it, but unable to get my mind back under control.

Do you need a soul to love?

We'd spent all day today saying it, too. Sneaking it in here and there when we'd though Giles and Dad couldn't hear us. Walking down the street, on the subway, in Warren's apartment, standing in line at security. But there'd been this little niggle the whole time. This nagging in the back of my mind, like we're saying it to each other…"I love you", but that maybe it means different things.

That I might still feel it, understand it differently than he does.

Because I'm a human. And he's not.

Do you need a soul to want to love someone?

Because he'd told me that, too. That all that matters when you don't have a soul is what you want. I'd asked him if he could be good, if he wanted it bad enough, if he could be good.

I don't think that's even a question anymore.

I stare at him, my beautiful vampire, with the thick dark lashes falling down over his creamy cheeks, and the waves of tousled platinum curls and the impossible cheekbones and I wonder if that could be it.

Is it just that he wants to love me, so he does? Is it the same way I love him, even without the soul? Does it mean the same thing?

Can it?

Or is it something else. A memory of the emotion, an echo of what he remembers loving someone to be like.

A memory left over from when he was human.

I frown, shifting in my seat so I'm facing him more fully.

"Do you remember what it was like?" I ask, dropping my voice down low, hoping the people around us either aren't listening or can't hear me. "To be human?"

He pops one eye open, glancing over at me.

"Why?"

I drop my eyes down, watching my fingers as I trace the curve of the arm rest in between us.

"I've just...been thinking…"

"Oh, dear," he drawls, opening both eyes now, leaning his head off the seat, "dangerous thing, that."

I force my eyes up to his and fix him with a serious look, lips pursed into a line.

"I've been thinking," I say again, emphasizing the word, then trailing off.

Second guessing myself.

Now isn't the time for this, not after everything the last 48 hours has brought us, not after everything we've been through. Now, when we're finally somewhat safe, somewhat levelling the playing field with Wolfram and Hart.

It's not the right time.

I watch him as his eyebrows shoot up, looking at me expectantly. I snap my mouth shut and shift backward, frustrated.

Frustrated that I can't find the words. Frustrated that I'm even trying to talk about this now. Now, when there's so many other, more important things to deal with.

I don't even know why it matters, why I feel like I need to know.

But my brain and my heart and my mouth all seem to want different thing.

"You love me," I say before I can stop myself, starting over, trying this from a different angle.

Spike's eyes visibly soften, the azure of his irises warm as he looks at me and nods. "I do."

There's a little flutter in my chest, the same one that's been there every other time he's said it to me, hinted at it today.

And the little back of the mind niggle is there, too.

I inhale, letting the air out slowly through my nose.

"And you…loved…Drusilla."

Another statement, but this one makes the vampire beside me tense up. I can feel it coming off him, the tension so palpable in his muscles that he might as well be vibrating.

"I…did," he says, answering me cautiously, very slowly.

Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I bite down on my bottom lip, chewing lightly as I turn my eyes away from his again.

"Were you ever in love before?" I ask quietly, clearing my throat before I finish the rest of my thought, "when you were human?"

Spike reaches forward suddenly, cupping my chin in his hand and turning my face back up toward his. His brows are drawn together, the corner of his lips turned down.

He looks at me, narrowing his eyes. Looking at me intensely, like he might be able to read my thoughts scrolling across the irises of my eyes.

"Buffy," he says softly, lowering his voice, too. "What's this about?"

The words are out, pushing past my lips one a long, rushed exhale before I can stop them.

"How do you love without a soul?"

Spike leans back away quickly, like I've just punched him in the face, dropping his hand from my skin like I've burned him.

Like it's the last question he'd expected me to ask.

And there's hurt flashing in his eyes.

My stomach sinks.

"How do I…" he trails off, his eyes narrowing in confusion. He shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

I have to look away from him as I say the next part.

"Look, I just…" I shut my eyes, inhaling, open them again. "I'm just…trying to understand." I force myself to meet his eyes again, and the hurt I see there makes me hate myself a little for even bringing it up. So what if I think I need to know. I don't really. Not yet, not now, not in the middle of all this Wolfram and Hart insane business.

I sigh, trying and failing to find the best way I can to explain to him what I'm thinking.

"I'm not saying you can't o-or that you don't, I just…is it a memory?" I ask, clinging to the notion, thinking it's what makes the most sense. "Is it remembering what it felt like to love as a human?"

He turns away from me.

My stomach drops again.

Asking was a mistake. Such a huge, huge mistake.

"Oh," he says, rolling his eyes up to stare at the ceiling. "That's what this is about, then."

I grip the far armrest with my fingers, leaning toward him. The apology is on my lips, ready to come out.

"Spike, I—"

But he cuts me off before I can get it out, and I'm not sure what surprises me more.

The fact that he's actually answering my question, or the answer that he gives me.

"I love the same way you do, Buffy," he says softly, letting his eyes fall closed. "Soul or no."

Then he laughs, sharp and a little bit bitter, shaking his head as drops his chin, opening his eyes and looking down toward his feet. "Even more so now, maybe...with everythin' that's happenin'."

I don't have to ask him what it is he's talking about. The prophecy, my connection to the demon that lives inside of him. The possibly connection he has with me. My humanity. The things he'd vaguely mentioned before I'd fallen asleep last night.

He has the same, cold edge to his voice when he says it now as he did a moment ago when he'd talked about being a human.

A little like it'd be so horrible to feel human again.

I reach for him and he lets me, not pulling away like I expect him to when my hand comes to rest on top of his. I watch as his eyes turn from mine and back down, focusing on our hands as they rest together on the armrest between us.

"I didn't mean—" I start to say, but he cuts me off again.

Probably for the best. I'm not sure what it is I didn't mean, anyway.

"Was never in love as a human," he says quietly, his voice so low I have to strain, leaning forward to hear him. His lips twist into a wry smile, and she shifts his eyes toward mine. "Thought I was. Wanted to be, but…" he trails off, and even though he isn't looking at me I can see how distant his gaze has become. Like he's seeing something I can't.

His voice is a little stronger when he continues on, "And then I was changed. And everythin' was all about Dru, you know?" His brow is furrowed when he looks back up at me. "She was my purpose, my reason for existin'. For over one hundred years I loved her, was completely dedicated to her."

There isn't any longing in his voice as he talks about Drusilla now. Not even any nostalgic tenderness. Just this sort of wiggy matter-of-factness that almost bothers me more than the other two might have.

Spike and I've avoided talking about Dru when he haven't had to. Apart from the role she played in Mom's death, the obvious…way long-term relationship she'd had with Spike, I hadn't really wanted to know much about her.

But the way he's talking now has me wondering…

"What happened?"

We've talked about Drusilla. About her being his sire, my mother's murderer, his lover. But never about why, what happened, why the two of them split apart after so much time together.

I think I expect there to be more of a pause between my question and his answer, but there's not. His response is immediate.

"You did."

The words are soft, hardly louder than a whisper as he looks back at me, eyeing me through dark lashes.

I blink at him.

"What?" I ask, my voice as quiet as his is. I can feel how wide my eyes are in my face.

He sighs, pulling his hand out from beneath mine and bringing it up to scrub it down over his face. Like he hadn't meant to say it.

Or maybe he's just regretting saying it.

And as I stare at him, I have this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach that he isn't talking about me now, but me…a while ago.

The first time we met.

I think of all the scathing, knowing looks that have passed between him and Giles over the past 24 hours. How obvious it had been that they'd known each other, that there was history there.

I had thought I'd known what it was, but the longer I'd been exposed to the palpable tension between them, the weird moment in the hall last night with Giles, what he'd said when he'd first seen Spike.

"…that was the deal."

I don't think I know anything at all.

"What happened the night my mom died?" I ask.

Spike pulls his hand back off his face and looks at me, frowning.

"I told you that already," he says, brow furrowed.

I shake my head.

"With you and Giles, Spike." I lower my voice even further, looking at him with a serious expression on my face. "Something else happened there."

We stare at each other for what feels like an impossibly long moment, unmoving, his eyes stormy with indecision as they look into mine.

Finally, finally, he opens his mouth to speak.

And it's at this moment when the flight attendant slides up next to us with the drink cart.

Spike doesn't hesitate, reaching out and grabbing several of the mini bottles of Jack Daniels and pulling them back to his seat, unlatching the little tray on the seat back in front of him and setting them down on top of it.

When she asks him if he'd like a coke to go with it, he just winks at her. She gives him a way too flirtatious smile back, and I feel the wild, raging swirl of jealousy in my chest rise up again. The same way it had in the terminal.

Once she leaves, it calms down a little. But only a little.

Spike reaches over and places one of the mini bottles in my hand.

"If I'm talkin', I'm drinkin'," he explains, popping the top off one of the bottles in front of him, raising it toward me and downing it in one long swallow. He tosses the empty bottle onto the tray and picks up a new one. "That's the deal."

Seems like an even trade to me.

"Okay," I say, twisting the top off the bottle in my hands and putting it to my lips, taking a small sip and setting it back down.

It isn't as bad as I remember.

I watch as Spike finishes off the second bottle, tosses it down, picks up a third and pauses with it halfway to his lips.

"When Wolfram and Hart came to me…about finding you," he says finally, softly, staring at the amber liquid in front of him. "It wasn't the first time they'd come to me with an offer."

It takes me a minute to understand what he's said, taking another tiny sip out of my own bottle and placing it back down again

I frown at him, narrowing my eyes. "What do you mean?"

I watch him down the third bottle, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, wincing a little as he reaches for the fourth.

He doesn't open it right away, though.

I watch him, waiting, still very confused. The couple little sips I've taken of the Jack is already buzzing around in my head, making it fuzzy, burning its way down to my stomach.

I pick it up again and take another, longer sip, wincing and sputtering a little as it goes down.

Maybe it is as bad as I remember it.

"I mean," Spike says, emphasizing the word, biting it out like it hurts him to say it. "It wasn't an accident, what happened with your mum."

The breath catches in my lungs and a little of the Jack Daniels spills out onto my hand as I set it down too quickly on the tray table in front of me.

My hands are shaking again. This time, I don't think it has anything to do with the turbulence.

I blink at him, trying to understand, wrap my suddenly foggy brain around what it is that he's implying.

"I don't understand," I murmur, eyes down, my vision blurring slightly.

I don't want to understand.

But the fact that I don't want to know doesn't mean Spike's going to stop trying to tell me.

"Wolfram and Hart set Joyce up, pet." Knew, somehow, where she was gonna be. When. Told Dru and I they'd…make it worth our while if we helped 'em out."

"Oh, God…" I close my eyes, lashes fluttering, feeling the tell-tale stinging of fresh, hot tears.

"They knew you'd be there, too."

My chest clenches, throat going dry. I force my eyes open and turn my head toward him, feeling light headed. And not just from the Jack.

I blink at him, shaking my head, eyes narrowed in delirious confusion. "How?"

"Dunno. But they…" he trails off, looking at my face. I watch the indecision pass over his eyes, the edges of his mouth turning down. "We were supposed to kill your mum, and take you back to them."

We were supposed to kill…We. He and .

And Wolfram and Hart had gone to him. Twice. Two different times, they'd approached Spike, Spike, specifically. Regarding me. Me and my family and the prophecy.

"It was supposed to be you, wasn't it?" I ask, my voice hoarse, thick with the emotion I'm fighting so hard to keep back. "The whole time."

He doesn't answer me, but I can see the answer in the way he's looking at me.

There's so much more to all this than I even knew.

And how much did Spike know? Has he known more this entire time?

What else could he have lied to me about?

Spike does that mind ready thing, and I'm glad. I'm having enough trouble as it is getting my mouth to move, getting the words to come out the way I want them to.

"They didn't tell us why, luv," he says, reaching toward me. He lays his hand against my cheek, brushing his thumb over my fevered skin, cooling the flush. "Never mentioned the prophecy, o-or any of it."

Part of me wants to push his hand away from me, but I don't. His cool hand feels too good against my cheek.

They were supposed to kill my mom and take me.

"Why didn't you take me?"

Spike's eyes grow dark, his expression clouded. Like he's remembering something he rather wouldn't.

"Would've," he says softly, pulling his hand back away from my face. "Was about to…but—"

And it's me that puts two and two together. I'm starting to get a picture in my head, piecing parts of the story he'd told me the first time around with the elements of this new, truthful version.

"Richard," I exhale, closing my eyes. "And Giles."

Spike nods.

"You said they just let you go," I whisper, thinking it through again, seeing the entire thing play out so differently in my mind's eye now. I open my eyes again. "That's not true, is it?"

"Ripper had a stake to Dru's chest before I even realized the two tossers were there in the alley," he responds, and I watch his eyes darken further. He has that same faraway look on his face now as he did before, eyes focused just past me, playing through his own version of events. "Saw your mum layin' there and…" he trails off, his hand curling into a fist. "He was gonna dust her. So I made a deal." He turns stormy azure eyes on me, searching my face. "Your life for hers."

My stomach twists.

No wonder Giles had been so confused to see the two of us together. Why he'd been so distrusting, so very wary of Spike.

He and Richard…they'd had to let my mother's murderer go in order to save my life, just so I'd end up exactly where they'd fought so hard to keep from.

In the arms of the enemy.

"And you were supposed to take Dru away and never come back," I finish the story for him, remembering the words Giles had spoken before.

"That part was Richard's idea," Spike says, whipping the top off the last bottle of Jack and eyeing it ruefully. "Didn't know why it mattered so much to him, gettin' us out of the country." He tips the bottle back and swallows it all, slamming it back down onto the tray. "Guess I do now."

My head is spinning.

Just when I think I've got a handle on what's going on, got a leg up on Holland and whatever his end game actually is, I get blindsided.

I sit back in my seat, staring straight forward and trying to wrap my head around everything Spike's just told me.

"Why didn't you tell me all this before?" I ask numbly, fingering the tiny empty bottle in front of me.

I'm still not sure he's told me everything, even now. Normally I think I'd press the issue, but I'm too bogged down, too overwhelmed to want to do that at the moment.

Maybe later.

My stomach churns, my head growing even lighter.

Maybe tomorrow.

"Didn't seem all that important before," he says, I know, referring back to the first time I'd asked him. Sitting on the cold cement floor in the basement vault room. I think back to the way he'd answered my questions that night, to the haunted look in his eyes when I'd asked him why he didn't kill me.

I whip my head back toward him, eyes going very wide, all the betrayal I'm suddenly feeling toward him bubbling up in my chest. My skin is hot, face flushed, blood rushing in my ears.

I glare at him, voice dropping dangerously low.

"You didn't think the fact that Wolfram and Hart put a vampire hit out on my mother was important?"

Spike leans toward me, dropping his voice low. His eyes narrow.

"Would it have mattered if I'd told you?" he asks, wild, black gaze boring into mine. "It isn't like it would've changed anything."

And he's completely missed the point.

"It isn't that you didn't tell me, Spike," I tell him, shaking my head, my eyes burning. And I realize the feeling in my stomach is hut. I'm hurt. I'm more hurt than I am angry. "You lied to me."

Just like everyone else.

He'd acted like he was surprised I'd been there, that he hadn't expected me to be with her. That running into Mom had been a coincidence. That he wouldn't normally have brought Dru out with him, but had that night.

Why didn't you kill me?

Honestly, I don't know.

All lies.

I feel hot, stinging tears fill my eyes. Betrayal, anger, bitterness, maybe a little confusion for good measure. And the hurt is there, too.

Because I'd trusted him when he'd told me the story. I'd trusted him with everything. And maybe I should have known better, but it doesn't matter now.

I feel like I might be sick.

"You should've told me," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt with shaky hands, pushing myself unsteadily to my feet.

"Ma'am." It's one of the flight attendants. The same one who'd had the drink tray earlier, shuffling down the aisle toward me. "The Captain hasn't turned off the no seatbelt sign."

I ignore her, putting one hand to my head and the other on the back of the seat in front of me, shoving my way past Spike's legs.

I need to get away from him.

I need the space.

My stomach rolls again, a thick, metallic taste flooding the back of my throat.

I need to get to the bathroom before I lose the little bit of Jack Daniels in my stomach.

Spike reaches out and grabs my wrist just as I'm about to pass him, step out into the empty aisle.

"Buffy, please," he says urgently, tugging on my wrist to pull me back toward him. "Couldn't stand you thinkin' I was more involved in this than I already was." His eyes search mine. Stormy, wild, the blue almost completely gone as I stare back down at him. But his face is soft again, now. Not angry. Not hard like it was a moment ago. "You have to understand…"

I yank my hand out of his grip with more force than necessary, turning my eyes toward the back of the plane. Giles is on his feet, watching me over the rows of seats between us. Dad is watching us, too, but he's still sitting down.

And even as mad as I am, as betrayed as I feel, I find myself wanting to protect Spike from them. Not wanting them to have any excuse to say we don't need him anymore.

I think about how ready Dad had been to go after him, to punch him, even though he knows fully what he's capable of.

Or worse.

I turn my gaze back down toward my vampire, shaking my head slowly.

"No more lies," I tell him, dropping my voice to a hissing whisper, staring down at him. My legs are unsteady, the pounding in my head growing worse by the second. I just want to sit back down, close my eyes, pretend this conversation never happened.

The flight attendant is still behind me, hovering, trying to talk to me, I think.

But I'm not listening.

I watch as Spike nods, something like relief filling his eyes. He reaches back out toward me, entwining his fingers in mine and pulling me gently back toward my seat.

In the end, I don't resist. My bones are too jello-y, my head too swimming, for me to resist.

I drop back into my seat, turning my eyes on him. The shaking hasn't stopped in my hands, but the nausea, the roiling in my gut, has slowed. Enough that I don't think I'm in danger of ruining Spike's duster.

Not that I'd probably care right now.

"No more lies," he repeats the words back to me. Slowly, solemnly. A promise he's making.

I stare back at him, my eyes still stinging a little, and wonder if he means it.

So I open my mouth and ask the question I've been wanting to since we first arrived at Giles's apartment.

"Do you know why Wolfram and Hart is after Giles?" I ask, testing the question, knowing there has to be more to what's between them than what he's told me. Because he'd hardly told me anything about it.

Thinking through the haze, I remember dimly the way Giles had said it when the question had been asked before. When Spike had asked the question before.

"I'm quite certain they have their reasons."

Spike's eyes flash, and I watch the muscle in his jaw clench. Like it's a question he'd been dreading this entire time, but one he knew would be coming.

"Got an idea, yeah," He murmurs, taking a deep breath in and exhaling through his nose.

An idea.

It's not a lot, not really an answer, but it's something.

"Why?" I ask, letting my eyes focus on his, willing him to answer me. To keep the promise he's just made.

Spike stares at me for a long, long moment. I can see the gears turning in his head, wondering what he should say. Maybe trying to figure out how he can answer me without lying, but without really answering either.

Finally, he opens his mouth and leans toward me, cupping my chin in his hand and turning my head to the side. He brushed my hair away from my ear, leaning in and whispering the answer into my ear.

My eyes go impossibly wide.

And I'm too shocked, too wholly and completely overwhelmed and confused to wonder how he could possibly know this. To question its validity. To wonder, if just for one second, if all anyone's ever done to me, for my entire twenty-four years of existence, is lie.

Because it can't be true. It isn't possible. What Spike's just said, it can't be true.

"Because he's your father."


	31. Chapter 29

Because he's your father.

No. There's just…no. No way. It's not possible. That's…it's too big of a lie. Even for Dad, even with all the other things…for everything else he's managed to keep from me. This is too majorly big.

And I can't think. Can't wrap my head around it. It's only been minutes, maybe just seconds since Spike's spoken, but it feels like hours. Like I've been sitting here, frozen to this spot, staring at the faded fabric of the seat back in front of me for ages.

It's not possible. It can't be.

"Buffy, luv," Spike murmurs in my ear, his voice very low. "Are you alright?"

I almost laugh.

Am I alright? No. I don't think so. I'm fairly sure I'm pretty huge with the not being alright.

In fact, I'm so not alright that I barely notice the vampire beside me shift sideways, hardly register when he loops his arm around my back and drags me across the seat toward him, fitting me into his side.

I think I'm shaking. My hands are cold. Or maybe those are his hands.

I can't tell.

"Fuck," I hear him mutter, the ruffling of my hair as he breathes heavily against me, his lips buried in my hair. "Need to learn to keep my bloody gob shut." But I'm barely listening to him. Hardly even feeling him kissing the side of my head, murmuring low, incoherent words into my hair.

Giles. Giles is my father.

The questions are whipping up, bumping around in my head like violent little bumper cars. Smashing into my skull, rattling around until they're smashing into one another. A little Buffy thought-bumper-car pile up. Does Dad know? Does Giles? Did my Mom even know that she was carrying someone else's baby when she was married to Hank? Did she raise me knowing full well that her husband wasn't my biological father? How the hell does Spike, Spike, know this in the first place?

And the best question of them all. The one that keeps hitting me, again and again, right between the eyes. Why didn't anyone tell me? God, especially after all the rest of the truth came tumbling out, why didn't anyone bother to tell me that my father, Hank Summers, the man who raised me isn't my dad at all? Isn't that something that should've been stated right on up there with the whole oh hey, your mom was a supernatural warrior for good and oh hey, also, you're supposedly some big old weapon of mass destruction that was pre-destined eons ago? It all seems like it'd be pretty damn relevant to me.

They're all kind of large with life changing.

"It's not true."

I don't think I quite realize it's me that's spoken, that it's my voice that sounds so small, so tinny in the cramped space between us, until Spike's arm squeezes me.

He inhales sharply, my name a low warning when it passes his lips. "Buffy." Like he doesn't want me to say anything else. Like my talking is only going to make things worse.

I don't know how things could get much worse.

And through the haze, through the disbelief and the numbness and the shock and all the super fun stuff that comes along with your entire world going ka-boom like an old Batman comic in the span of about two days time, there's anger. It's there, too, just under the surface, waiting to scratch and claw it's way out as soon as I give it a chance.

If it's true. If. Then he should have told me. Somebody should have told me.

But it's not true.

"It's not," I say out loud, my voice still that weird, hollow quiet. I blink once. Twice. My eyes are starting to burn. I'm still staring straight ahead, focused on a frayed thread poking out of the material in front of me. "It can't be."

Beside me, Spike sighs again. His breath is cool against my overheated skin, sending a piece of hair fluttering in front of my face. "'S true, pet," he says softly, and I can feel it when he shakes his head. "Bloody wish it weren't, for your sake." A pause. "But yeah, it is."

I shake my head this time, my lips moving before I can stop them, asking the question that I keep coming back to again and again. The only question I feel like I can formulate coherently. And, I guess, the one that informs all the others, too. "How do you even know that?"

My words make the vampire beside me pause, and I can feel his chest heaving in and out, his shoulder nudging against mine every time. Finally, Spike clears his throat, waiting still just a little longer than I expect him to before he finally answers me, his voice low and strained. "Overheard somethin' I wasn't meant to."

I let out the air I hadn't even realized I'd been holding in.

It's the way he says it that sends any itty bitty, eensy bit of whatever hope I'd had that the vampire was making this whole thing up skittering out the window. Grim determination of someone who knows just how true their bad news actually is. And I just have this feeling. This urgent, thrumming, alive feeling in the very pit of my stomach that whatever it is Spike's about to tell me now is the truth.

"Overheard Giles?" I ask weakly.

"Richard," Spike answers, and I close my eyes.

"When you were trying to save Drusilla?" I guess, opening my eyes again and shifting them sideways just in time to see Spike nod slowly.

It's my turn to nod, feeling like I'm only halfway hearing this. Only partially understanding it. I clear my throat this time, conscious of the giant lump there that seems to be getting bigger and bigger by the second. "That I was…" I trail off, glancing back at the seat in front of me. I can't say the words yet. Don't know how. "I mean, that he's my…"

"Yeah," Spike cuts me off, sparing me from my stifled, awkward rambling. "Reminded him of the last promise Joyce had him make."

"To…protect me?" It sounds like a guess, like a question, but we both low I'm not really asking. It seems to be all anybody ever tired to do— protect me.

"To protect you," Spike says simply, his eyes wild and stormy, voice low and smooth. "To protect their daughter."

The words hit me square between the eyes, like ice water in my veins. Their daughter. His daughter. Giles's daughter. Giles and Joyce. My parents. My biological parents.

Two people I don't know at all.

And even though I find myself unwilling to argue with Spike now, can feel it in my gut that this—this, at least— is the truth, it still isn't adding up for me. Isn't making sense yet. I frown, gaze moving down toward my lap, to the chipped, pale pink polish flaking off on my nails. "If Giles is my father why did he and Richard send me away with Dad?" I ask quietly, my voice low. Hoping maybe that maybe working through it out loud will make it make some kind of…any kind of sense.

"Dunno," my vampire says, his voice equally low. "Guess it was part of the plan to begin with, gettin' you across the country and all." I feel Spike shrug, his shoulder firm against mine as it shifts up and down. "Mighta thought it'd be safer, splittin' you all up."

But that isn't an answer. At least, not an answer to the question I'd actually been asking.

I shake my head. "No, that's not…" I trail off, pausing to grip at the armrest to my left when we hit a patch of turbulence and the sharp ding of the fasten seat belt sign pings above me. The whiskey from before is still buzzing in my head, firing through my blood and maing my fingers tingly and numb, burning the back of my throat now as it threatens to come back up. Spike squeezes me a little tighter, his hand wrapping firmly around my waist, doing a better job holding me down to my seat than the belt buckled across my lap.

Once the turbulence passes I slowly relax my hand's grip on the armrest between us, eyes still glazed over, fogged out and staring ahead as I finish my question from before. "Why wouldn't Giles have taken me?"

Because he should have. That would have made more sense, I think. I think. If Giles is my dad, and at this point I don't really know what to believe on that front but it's looking more and more like that's a big old yes, then why send me with Dad? With Hank? Why not send me with my real father? Why not let my real father hide me away. Protect me. Raise me.

Unless…

My stomach sinks, clenching and tightening, a sickening sinking feeling that has absolutely nothing to do with turbulence. And I think I'm really about to lose the whiskey all over Spike's lap.

I blink numbly, still not really seeing anything at all as I manage to get the question out on a choke. "Does he know?"

My vampire just stares at me. I know he is, even though I'm not looking at him. I can feel those stormy, azure eyes on my face, burning a hole through my already over heated skin. "He who?" Spike asks, and I find myself finally twisting slightly, angling my head so I can see his eyes. They're swirling and stormy, and not azure at all, but almost a navy color in the dim cabin light.

I clear my throat, swallowing against the lump there. "Dad," I begin to clarify, then pause, my voice as numb and monotone as the rest of me feels. "Hank. Does he know?"

I watch the understand dawn on Spike's face, his eyes lightening, widening slightly as he looks back at me. Then he sighs heavily, casting a glance over his shoulder through the space between our seats. Then he turns around again, his eyes almost sad as they search mine. "That, I don't know."

My chest squeezes again, heart thudding once, hard and fast into my ribs as that implication sinks in. I let out a shuddering exhale, squeezing my eyes shut and dropping my head down into my hands. "Oh, God."

No wonder Dad didn't tell me. He didn't even know. Still doesn't know. So, that's great. It must run in the family. Now I'm the one with the mega dark secret and the stomach full of twisty, turning knots.

I don't notice I'm crying until Spike reaches forward and wipes the track of a tear away from my cheek.

"Now, none of that," the vampire hushes me softly, wrapping his other arm around me and pulling me over as close as I can possibly get to him, tighter and closer than before, using his body to shield me from the views of those seated around us. "Don't know for sure that Hank's not in on this whole thing. Don't know he doesn't know." He pauses meaningfully, a poignant silence floating between us as I suck in a deep, shaking breath. Then he frowns, seeming to think things over again. "Though nobody seems to be tellin' anyone much of anythin', do they?"

His words strike a hard chord in me as I sniffle lamely, a fresh wave of irrational fear rocketing straight down my spine. My eyes go wide, panic suddenly gripping my chest, my heart thudding wildly against my ribs as I turn my body fully toward Spike. "I can't be the one tell him," I whisper, my voice strained, frantic as I grip at him. "I can't."

The vampire shushes me softly, squeezing me, turning to glance over his shoulder as though to make sure nobody can hear us, to ensure no one's looking our way. When he turns back to me, his eyes are dark, serious. "Nobody's askin' you to, luv," he promises me, using the grip he has on me to calm me down, rubbing slow circles into the patches of bared skin he's found. "Wasn't even supposed to sodding tell you, was I? Not s'posed to know myself."

Oh.

That's true.

I'm not supposed to know. Spike's not supposed to know. Nobody'll know that I know, because they don't know that he knows. No one expects me to say anything. No one expects me to know anything. Apparently, as far as Giles knows, the only people who might have known, would have known for sure, are all dead.

There's every possibility I can just…go the rest of my life pretending to not know what I know.

I frown, grimacing slightly. It's all starting to make me feel a little dizzy. But the adrenaline pumping through my veins starts to slow a little, the erratic pounding of my heart and the blood rushing in my ears quieting as Spike rubs slow circles into my skin.

"Is that why you asked?" I ask, feeling a soft surge of frustration starting to pool in my gut now as I look at him. Back to being frustrated, angry that so many people who claim to love me would keep something so incredibly massive from me for so long. It's strong, as strong as my panic had been moments ago even though part of me still just feels numb to it all. "Why you asked Giles why Wolfram and Hart would be after him in the first place?"

Spike must sense the change in my emotions, or read the change in my body language or something because he tugs me closer to him, like the pressure of his body against mine will work to calm me down again. He nods. "Wanted to see what the old man'd say," he explains, his voice still a low, quiet rumble. "Keepin' an eye out for Hank's reaction, too."

To see if Dad knew?

"And?" I ask, not entirely sure what answer I actually want to hear.

Spike shakes his head slowly. "Didn't get so much as a double take from him."

Not that that means anything. Dad kept some pretty major secrets from me, and he did it without so much as batting an eye for the last eighteen years. If the man knows how to do anything, it's how to hide a reaction to a lie.

"He must know," I half whisper, more to myself than to Spike. I look away from the vampire in beside me, eyes glazing over slightly as I try and work through it in my head. "If it's true. If. Then he has to know." I swallow, my mouth and throat having gone impossibly dry. "If Wolfram and Hart knows then he has to know, too."

Spike snorts, a harsh, low disbelieving sound. His voice is gravelly, tinged with an anger that hadn't been there before when he speaks again. "Hard to say what all any one of us knows for sure anymore."

There's a long, poignant pause as we stare at each other. It's the truest statement I've heard in what feels like forever.

It grows very quiet between us for a long moment, neither of us talking, barely even moving. My head hasn't gone down much in the whole spinning department. There's still adrenaline flooding my system, fueled by out and out confusion. Disbelief. Denial. Disgust. Confusion again. The emotions run the gamut, and they cycle through a few different times before I finally land on a new one. Horror. Grim realization.

"Did they…" I begin slowly, trailing off, trying to force myself to say the words out loud as I fully grasp it. The weight of what this means, not just for me, but for Dad. For Giles and my mom. "I mean, they must have…they'd had to have had a-an affair or..." My eyes are burning again as I stumble through the loose phrasing, the scrambled words. Not sure if the crushing, clenching feeling in my chest is disgust or disappointment or some combination of the two. "Right? Giles and my mom." I'm not even looking at the vampire beside me, but staring straight ahead. Frozen. "I'm the product of some sort of wig worthy, supernatural adulterous relationship, aren't I?"

I turn my head slightly to the side to glance at Spike, watching from what feels like really far away as the telltale signs of his signature smirk start to curve the edge of his lips. "All the things you've found out over the last couple'a days and that's the part you can't wrap your lobes around?" he asks me, a low rumble of what sounds suspiciously like a chuckle in his voice.

The noise is too weird. Too out of place in this moment, and it does the trick to pull me out of whatever semi-catatonic state I'd been drifting into. I turn on him in a flash, placing my free hand against his chest and shoving him hard away from me. I barely move, his grip around me is still too firm, but I get at least a little space between us. Enough that I can look into his face, glaring up at him through narrowed eyes.

"This is funny to you?" I ask him, careful to keep my voice low, low enough I'm sure that only he can hear me. "Absolutely everything I knew, still knew, to be true about my life has just crumbled apart all around me and you think it's funny?"

He doesn't. I know he doesn't. I can see it written all over his face, that he isn't laughing at me. Isn't laughing at any part of the situation I've suddenly found myself in. But it feels good, in the moment. Feels good to yell and be angry and to feel like I'm justified in feeling that way.

My vampire sobers instantly, the mischievous glint in his eyes going out. It's replaced by something much softer, and so warm. The way he'd looked at me last night when I'd first said the words. The way he'd looked at me as his body had made love to mine. Sitting in the airport. And again, just before take off. He doesn't say the words, but I see them there anyway. I love you. It stills me for a second, my chest heaving, my hand gripped firmly in between both of his larger ones as he stares back at me.

"No. Not funny, sweet," he tells me gently, long, cool fingers wrapping more snugly around my hand. He tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes a little as he scans my face. "Just wonderin' how that brain of yours works, is all."

The flash of anger starts to fade, going soft and fuzzy around the edges as I look at him looking at me. Even though I want to stay angry with him this time—really, really want to— I know I won't be able to. Not when he's looking at me like this. Not when the only thing I can see reflected back at me now in the dark of his irises is complete and total adoration. A fierce need to protect me.

That's why he'd lied to me in the first place, I know. Every lie he's told me from word Go, why he'd kept the truth from me. And as angry as I am about that, as clear as it is to me that it's something we'll be dealing with for a long, long while, I also recognize why he did it. I understand it.

I just don't like it.

I sigh, shaking my head and tearing my eyes away from his. I need to think straight. I can't think straight when he's looking at me like he is. "I don't think it is working right now."

"Understandable," Spike concedes, sighing himself. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest even with the space I've managed to put between us. "Been through more in the last forty eight hours than most people ever have to." I feel him reach for me, feel his hand ghosting over my face, like he wants to touch me but doesn't want to try just yet. Giving me as much space as he can. "Right strong, you are."

It makes me laugh. I don't know exactly why. I guess because I don't feel particularly strong at the moment. A little sick, maybe. Panicked, sure. Like I'm losing my mind, definitely. Strong? Not so much. "Is that why I feel like my brain's about to explode and my stomach's about to bottom out?" I ask harshly, my voice biting and hollow, sarcastic as I force my eyes back toward his. "Is that what being strong feels like?"

And as usual, as he somehow manages to do so often, my vampire completely surprises me. "Maybe," Spike says immediately, not missing a beat. His eyes are open, earnest. Like he's never meant anything more than he means this one word right now.

And for whatever reason, it's that unwavering, unyielding conviction in his voice that has me melting back into him. Has my muscles relaxing, my shoulder dropping lower until it slumps down against his. He takes the weight of my body easily, the hand that never left my waist curving a little more snugly around me again. Like he has permission to now.

"I don't…" I trail off, swallowing hard again and blinking wide eyed at the vampire beside me. "I don't know what to do with this."

He shakes his head and reaches for me with his free hand again, lowering his voice as he leans toward me. His hands are cold, I can feel them even through the denim of my jeans, the place he grabs my leg and tugs me more firmly into him. "Don't expect you to." His eyes search mine wildly as he speaks. He pauses, exhales, squeezes his eyes closed. "Just…Christ, I dunno Buffy…you said no more lies." He opens his eyes again, and when they meet mine now they look pained. "Maybe I shouldn'a said anythin'."

And I dimly realize that somehow, again, I've managed to hurt him. In my own panic, my own twisty weird, life crumbling down around me confusion I've hurt him. My vampire. Again. That I've made him regret telling me the truth, even though I'd been the one who'd demanded it.

The anger fizzles even more.

"No," I hear myself say, reaching for him without thinking, grasping for his forearms a little awkwardly given our position, angling my body toward his. Our faces are close now. I shake my head, the tip of my nose just barely grazing his as I do. "No, I'm glad you did." I'm not sure how true it is, but it doesn't matter. And besides that, he's right. I'd made him promise. No more lies. "I…made you promise. It's just a lot." I suck in a deep breath and let it out again through pursed lips, almost unconsciously sinking further into him as I whisper "A lot, a lot."

Spike pulls a little ways back from me so he can see my face, reaching a hand up to tuck a tangled strand of hair back behind my ear as he does. "Can ask me whatever you need to, luv." Then he shrugs, the tiniest hint of a smirk curving his lips once again. At his own expense, I know. Not mine. "Might not have all the answers, o'course."

Like anyone does at this point?

I don't say that, though. I just nod and let myself separate from him, leaning back and dropping my head down against the seat behind me. Dimly wondering if the people seated around us have any possible idea how wonky the world they live in actually is.

I feel like I'm just barely starting to get a grip on it myself.

And it's kind of funny. Now that I've been given the go head to ask questions, I don't even know where to start. What's even worth asking? What's a question that Spike might actually know the answer to? I'm getting pretty tired of hearing the words "I don't know" or "I can't be sure".

Not that knowing things seems to be a whole lot with the better.

"What is it about Giles?" I finally ask, letting my head loll to the side so I can see my vampire's face. Our bodies aren't touching, aren't molded together like they'd been a moment ago, but for the tension I can feel rolling off him in waves we might as well be. "Why do they need him so bad? Just because he's my…" I trail off, pausing to breathe deeply before continuing on. The word sounds weird on my tongue. "…biological father? Or is there another reason?"

Spike's answer is immediate. "Wager s' got everythin' to do with him bein' your father and not much at all to do with anythin' else."

I frown at him, wondering why he sounds so sure. I mean yeah, true, everything else seems to be pointing with a big flashing neon sign towards all things Buffy…but with so many unanswered questions, it seems like there should still be a little room left for doubt.

Not that you'd know it from the look on Spike's face. Cheeks hollowed, lips set in a firm line. His eyes are down now, focused on something in the small space left between us.

"You sound pretty sure," I say slowly, eyes scanning the sharp angles of his face, willing him to look back at me.

But he just shrugs, his eyes still cast down. "Doesn't seem like there's much else for it, if you ask me."

"You think it's something to do with the prophecy," I say, not bothering to make it a question. Like it should be obvious.

Because it probably should be.

"Well, yeah," Spike says flatly, and he does meet my eyes again now. They're slightly narrowed, a deep furrow forming between his dark brows. "You don't?"

I do, I guess. Or I know I should think that. If everything Spike's told me is true, if Giles really is my biological father, then it makes sense for Wolfram and Hart to be after him because of that, and not because of some other, newer reason. It has to all be tied together. I know that.

Of course I know that.

That would have been the reason Wolfram and Hart needed Dad. The reason Holland got me all twisted up and confused in the first place. The reason they let us out. It actually all makes a sort of wiggy, diabolical kind of sense.

Still, it's all just a little much for one day. It's just been a little over twenty-four hours.

I shake my head for what feels like the millionth time and sigh, letting the muscles in my shoulders sink back into the stiff seat cushions behind me. "I don't know what to think anymore," I tell Spike honestly, my voice coming out as strained and tired as the rest of me suddenly feels. Like all the adrenaline I'd been running on up until this point has been leeched from my veins, leaving every muscle in my body heavy and sore and spent. "I don't know what questions I should even bother asking."

Spike just nods, leaning his head back against his own seat to mirror me, shifting his dark navy eyes in my direction. He reaches his free hand out to let it rest loosely, if not a little possessively, against my leg. Just a little piece of connection. "Reckon we'll figure some of that out once we get where we're goin', yeah?"

I automatically lift my hand up to cover his with mine and begin tracing the delicate blue veins across the back of his hand absently, almost without realizing what I'm doing. "That's if we get where we're going," I clarify flatly, turning my eyes down to our hands, watching my movements. I feel my lashes flutter, my eyes getting heavy out of nowhere. The whiskey's still buzzing a little beneath my skin, but I don't feel sick like I did earlier. "The way things have gone up til this point I wouldn't even be surprised to see Holland waiting to pick us up at LAX."

Beside me, Spike chuckles. The sound is deep, rumbling from somewhere in his chest. The sound is welcome now. Comforting. It doesn't set me one edge like it had a moment ago.

I turn my gaze up toward his expecting him to be looking back at me, but his eyes are closed now. He could be sleeping, as completely still as he is. Head tipped back, lashes dark against the pale skin of his cheeks, platinum curls tousled and still free from the gel. My fingers itch to reach up and thread through the bleached locks, and for a second, just a second, I can push every strained, anxious thought, every rushing wave of anger and frustration I'd felt toward the vampire just moments ago out of my head and just look at him. Look at him and wonder if I'll ever manage to stay truly, honest to God mad at him when all he has to do is close his eyes and voila– instant angel face.

"Least we got rid of that bloody trackin' device," Spike murmurs, jarring me out of my thoughts, or non-thoughts, I guess, and back into the moment.

"Yep," I agree, popping the P and sighing again, nodding even though his eyes are still closed and I know he can't see me. "But not before leading them straight to Giles." My voice has a hard edge to it. It's something that had bothered me kind of a lot already. The guilt factor is about ten times bigger now.

Spike's eyes shoot open immediately, his entire body tensing up again so suddenly it actually makes me jump. He leans slightly toward me. "That wasn't your fault," he insists, his voice low and insistent. Leaving zero room for argument.

Not like that's ever stopped me before.

And besides that, he's wrong. About this part he's wrong.

"It was though," I tell him, my voice just as insistent as his. I don't know when my eyes had started to sting again, but they're burning now, vision blurring slightly as I keep going, pushing on. "I wanted to get out of there, to get you and Dad out of there so badly that I didn't even consider…and now–" My voice breaks, and Spike's sitting bolt upright in an instant, hooking his arm back around my waist and hauling me toward him so my side is pressed firmly back against his once again.

"Now nothin', pet," he murmurs, leaning in so his face is very close to mine, my hair falling like a curtain in front of our faces even as I notice the flight attendant walking past us, casting an odd glance in our direction. I ignore her, focusing instead on the flashing in Spike's eyes as he looks at me. "Everythin's fine. We've just gotta get to LA…figure some kinda plan and go from there." He squeezes me gently, ducking his head slightly to better meet my eyes. "One step at a time, yeah?"

I frown at him, blinking quickly to try and clear my blurred vision. One step at a time. I don't think I even know how to do one step at a time anymore. "Easier said than done," I whisper.

Spike growls, his eyes flashing and darkening as the light around us in the cabin seems to dim even more. "Only gonna make things harder for everyone if you keep that up."

I blink at him, my frown deepening. "Keep what up?"

"All that silent sufferin' you've been up to. Blamin' yourself for all this." He gestures around us with a tilt of his head, indicating the two older men several rows back. Then he pauses, lowering his voice even further, tightening his hold around me. "If anyone's to blame, luv, 's me. You know that as bloody well as I do."

I open my mouth on impulse to deny it, to tell him that he's wrong. That it isn't his fault, that none of this is, like I've done every other time he's mentioned it so far. I think in the end it's the look on his face that stops me. The hard set of his jaw, the haunted look in his eyes. And it had been me. I'd been the one to make him promise.

I'm the one who said no more lies.

"You're right," I say softly, nodding slowly and searching his eyes with mine, watching his expression carefully. "Some of this is your fault." I reach a hand up and lay it flush against the cool skin of his cheek. "You. Dad. My mom. Giles." Then I pause, letting out a choked little half laugh as I shake my head. "God, Wolfram and Hart—"

"But not you," Spike says forcefully, cutting me off.

"Yeah, me," I counter, just as forcefully. Then, a little softer. "We're all a little bit to blame I think."

For a second, I think he's going to argue with me again. I can see it on his face, in the way he sucks his cheeks in, the way the navy irises are swirling with jet the tiniest hint of gold. But then the moment passes, and he exhales a needless stream of air as he chuckles again, offering me a wry, sideways smile. "Bloody hell," he murmurs, "only you'd be able to find a way to blame all of our buggering messes on yourself."

I feel my own lips twitch up in spite of myself. Maybe at the absolute insanity of this situation we're in. Maybe at how absolutely upside down and right side up everything about my life feels right now. Or maybe it's just the vampire in froth of me.

Something about the way Spike's looking at me now feels a little on the infectious side.

I shrug, my hand still pressed to the sharp, angled plane of his cheek. "Kinda what I do." A beat. Then, "Maybe that's my super-destructo-power."

Spike rolls his eyes, a low growl rumbling from the back of his throat. "Christ—"

"Right," I say quickly, cutting him off and dropping my hand down from his face. "No more self-blaming. Got it."

"So you say," my vampire drawls, cupping my hand in his and bringing it up to his lips, pressing a light kiss to the knuckles. "We'll figure this out, pet," he murmurs against my skin, kissing my hand one more time before letting our tangled hands fall down to his lap. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing me through his lashes. "Managed to get ourselves this far."

And that much is true, too, I guess. As true as any of other, nastier things we've been dealing with lately. We've managed to get this far. Together.

But.

"But what now?" I ask, halfway knowing Spike won't have any better of an idea, any better of an answer, than I do. I twist my head around so I can see in between our two seats, shifting my eyes a few rows back. I can just barely make out Dad, leaning toward Giles and talking animatedly about…something. I frown, my stomach doing that all too familiar twisty thing again. "How am I supposed to deal with…that."

I don't think I even know where to begin dealing with that.

Spike's cool fingers slide beneath my chin, cupping it and guiding my attention back toward him. "One step at a time," he whispers, as much an answer to my question as it is a reminder of what he'd told me earlier.

He means it, I can tell. Honestly thinks it'll be that simple. That things will fall into place for us if we just…inch our way forward. And maybe my vampire's right. Maybe it will be that simple. Maybe the more complicated and wiggy and messed up things get, the simpler dealing with it all actually is.

Maybe.

"Okay," I hear myself say, not really wanting to deal with any of it just yet anyway. And even though it doesn't sound any more doable now than it had the first time around, I find myself nodding. I guess I can try it.

One step at a time.

But I can't stop myself from thinking it, even as I watch Spike nod and smile at me, watch him lean forward and press a firm, momentarily mind-numbing kiss to my lips.

I just wish the steps didn't all feel so world endy.


	32. Chapter 30

It's about twenty minutes before we land when the knots in my stomach start to twist up again, full force. Little gnawing, churning waves inching up through my gut and into my chest the closer and closer we get to L.A. Because once this plane lands, once we get off and it's not just Spike and I in our own little world up here but it's the four of us, and I have to somehow figure how it is exactly I'm going to handle this big, huge thing I've just found out, I think my head might explode. Like, actually explode. Right off my shoulders.

Which might not be the worst thing, all things considered. There' can't be any doom-and-gloom world ending prophecies that deal with me if I don't exist, right?

When the captain finally comes over the speaker system to announce our final descent to LAX, Spike's grip on my hand tightens just a little just as the muscles in my neck and shoulders tense up. I'm still staring straight ahead, wide eyes glued to the seat in front of me, the same three sentences playing through my head. Over and over again on a loop as I think about facing them, both of them, knowing what I do now.

I can't do this yet. I'm not ready. I don't know how.

All too soon the wheels of the plane unfold below us and touch down on the runway with a shuddering jerk, sending me reaching on impulse for Spike's hand again, squeezing my eyes shut as the plane begins to decelerate. And then we're moving slowly, taxiing to the gate. As soon as the little fasten seatbelt sign pings off above us, full fledged, mind-numbing panic takes over. I reach for the seat belt across my lap, trying and failing to unlatch it. My hands are shaking too much.

Beside me, Spike sighs, reaches his hands across my lap and undoes the buckle for me. "Take it easy, pet," he whispers in my ear, taking one of my trembling hands in his and squeezing it one more time before letting it go. "Remember, everythin's gonna be fine."

I nod absently, not looking at him because honestly, I'm only half listening. I turn my head to side and watch as the rows of people in the seats in front of us begin to stand, shuffling through the overhead bins for the their luggage and slowly start to move toward the aisle and off the plane.

I swallow hard and nod again, more to myself than anything. "One step at a time, right?" I ask out loud, half because I need him to reassure me again and half because I just need something, anything, to say. Something to keep that inevitable head explodey thing from happening.

Spike nods back, offering me a small half-smile. "That's right."

Once the rows in front of us have filed out and it's our turn, we stand up too, Spike reaching back behind him to offer me his hand. I take it unthinkingly, entangling my fingers with his on instinct and following him out into the wide middle aisle of the airplane. I follow him numbly, letting his hand pull me along behind him like I'm some lost little girl. Which I kind of feel like I am. We move quickly through the lines of people, shuffling bodies on all sides of us as we emerge from the jetway and reach the gate, only stopping once we reach the far end of the terminal and turning back around to face the entrance, waiting for Dad and Giles.

Dad and my father, my mind corrects me instantly, forcing another clenching in my stomach. I close my eyes again for a moment, forcing the panic out of my head and trying to focus instead on the calming presence of the vampire beside me, the constant pressure of his shoulder where it presses against mine.

One step at a time, and this is just one step. One of a hundred. Pretending everything's fine. That I don't know that everything I've ever been told about my life, who I am, is a lie. Just…pretend.

I open my eyes again, feeling a teensy bit better. You can do this, I promise myself. One step at a time.

Of course, that all goes flying out the window as soon as the two older men come walking around the corner and out into the main terminal space.

"Oh, God," I breathe as soon as I see them heading toward us, gripping Spike's hand as hard as I can, a renewed surge of panic causing my palms to sweat and my pulse to stutter and start pounding in my veins. My head is light, all the progress I'd made in the last five minutes just—poof—gone. Just like that. I turn toward my vampire, finding his eyes with mine. "I don't think I can—"

"Shh," Spike quiets me softly, pressing his lips to my hair. He murmurs something low and unintelligible into the spot just above my ear, pulling away just as Giles and Dad come to a stop in front of us. My wide eyes are glued to the space in between them.

I swallow hard.

Things are weird for a second. No one says anything right away. And God, I swear, it's written all over my face. Everything I'm thinking, everything I know. I have dirty-little-secret face.

"Well, then," Giles finally speaks first, breaking the silence and looking back and froth between the vampire and I with open, curious eyes. "How was the flight?"

I open my mouth automatically to answer him but no sound comes out.

"Just fine," Spike supplies an answer for both of us, and I press my hand a little tighter into his in some weird little show of gratitude.

But Dad's frowning at me, his eyes scanning my face like maybe he's looking for something. Seeing something. I freeze, shoulders tense as I meet his eyes reluctantly, watching as he raises an eyebrow skeptically. "It didn't look so fine from where we were sitting."

Oh, boy.

I blink at him, a fresh wave of panic seizing my gut. I open my mouth to speak again and this time, thank God, I manage to. Even if my voice does sound squeaky and weird. "Umm," I begin, clearing my throat, trying to force the words past the giant lump resting in the back. "W-what do you mean?"

"It looked like the two of you were having a rather heated discussion at one point," Giles clarifies a little haltingly, shoving his hands deep down into his jacket pockets and watching me from behind his glasses. His eyes shift warily toward Spike before coming back to mine. He frowns, leaning just slightly toward me. "Is everything alright?"

Spike lets go of my hand, reaching his arm around instead to wrap it comfortingly around my waist, tugging me into his side. "Right as rain, mate," he says casually, voice light.

But Giles doesn't look at him. Actually, he never takes his eyes off me. "Buffy?" he prompts softly, and the way he's looking at me now, I'd swear. He can see it, he can tell. I'd swear he knows that I know. Logically, sure, I know he doesn't. That he couldn't, that there's no way…but it's the look in his eyes. Like he's half expecting me to say it, for the words "I know that you're my father" to just burst forward, tumble out of my mouth before I can find a way to stop them.

"Just a little lover's quarrel, yeah?" Spike interjects again, and I don't have to see his face to know he has both brows raised. "Nothin' to write home about."

And this time, Giles does look away from me. Just long enough to shoot Spike a narrowed eyed glare before turning back toward me again, eyeing me expectantly with eyes that seem to know more than they should.

"Everything's fine," I lie, my voice sounding flat and hollow.

This time it's Dad that steps forward, casting a dark look toward my vampire before fixing his eyes on me. "Buffy?" he prompts me the same way Giles had a moment ago. Exactly the same way Giles had a moment ago. The same low tone, the same edge of concern, and just the tiniest hint of scolding there, too.

And it's too much. God, it's all just too much.

"Fine," I say again, more forcefully this time. Just wanting to put an end to this conversation. "I'm fine. It's all…it was fine." I wince, shaking my head and trying my hardest just to stay focused, just to get out of the airport. To finish this step and move on to the next one. I suck a deep breath in and exhale through pursed lips. "Shouldn't we probably be, ya know, going?"

Dad never takes his eyes off me, still looking pretty unconvinced by my lame everything's fine tirade. But he doesn't push me. Instead, he nods, glancing toward Giles. "We should probably get a move on if we want to make the motel before sunrise."

"Great," I say, not waiting for anyone else to respond before turning on my heel and spinning out of Spike's grasp in the process, more than ready to get outside and get a little fresh air. "Let's go."

Spike and I manage to reach the pick up point outside the airport before Dad and Giles do. He follows me all the way up to the edge of the curb, and I can feel his eyes on my back as I drop my head down into my hands and begin slowly rubbing my temples. The night air is nice and cool, not the bracing cold of New York but still clear and breezy enough that sucking in a deep breath has my lungs feeling chilled, the open sky above me already working to clear my head. A moment passes, and then I feel Spike's hand on the small of my back, moving in slow, soothing circles. I can feel it, even through the material of my t-shirt, the familiar chill of his skin.

"Well, no sign of Holland yet," he murmurs after a pause, the barest hint of a smirk in his voice when he does. His hand continues to rub my back in slow circles. "Guess you were wrong 'bout that part, luv."

He's just trying to lighten the mood, I know. Trying to relax me. It isn't working.

I shake my head, pulling it up and out of my hands, turning around on the curb to face my vampire head on. "I don't think I can do this," I tell him on a strained whisper, and I can already feel my eyes starting to burn. I take in another deep, bracing breath. "Pretend I don't know. Spike, I can't—"

"You can," he says quickly, cutting me off, reaching to wrap his fingers around my upper arms. His eyes flash as they burn down into mine. "And you will. Just for now. Just until we get all this sorted with Wolfram and Hart and that sodding prophecy of theirs." He dips his head down slightly to better catch my eyes, forcing me to make and keep eye contact with him. "Bringin' it all up now won't do any of us a bit of good."

I start to nod, then immediately stop, suddenly feeling light headed again. Like…vertigo or something, the blood that had rushed to my head when I'd had it in my hands draining down. I grimace at my vampire, wrinkling my nose up. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"You'll be fine," Spike promises me, his hands working to hold me upright. "Just keep it together for a few more days."

I gape at him, blinking dumbly. "Keep it together?" I repeat flatly, trying to work through the words in my head. Matching them to the expression on his face. I shake my head, still blinking rapidly. The twisting in my stomach is forgotten for the moment, replaced instead with pulsing anger. "God, Spike, do you hear yourself? You make it sound so easy," I hiss, pulling myself out of his arms and taking a big step back. I stare at him, eyes starting to sting and burn all over again. "Do you have any idea how this feels?"

"No," he answers simply, honestly, reaching for me again. I move to side step him but he's faster than me, not allowing me to push away from him this time. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me back toward him, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "I'm a touch out of my element here," he says, his eyes looking dark again, only illuminated by the harsh artificial lights outside the airport. "Don't have the answers, luv. Just tryin' to help."

I sigh, melting into him and nodding my head. A moment later, Dad and Giles join us out on the curb, and I reluctantly peel myself out of the vampire's embrace, mentally trying to prepare myself for whatever step is about to come next.

"Ready to go?" Dad asks, his eyes dropping warily down to where my hand still rests lightly against Spike's hip.

"Yep," I say, too quickly and a little too loud, popping the "P". Beside me, I can feel Spike smirking. I ignore him, instead trying my best to force a bright smile onto my face. "Just…waiting for you guys."

Dad nods. "We thought we might need more cash," he explains, making a show of stuffing a wad of green bills into his wallet and stuffing the faded leather back into his back pocket.

"Where we off to now, then?" Spike asks, digging his hands down into the pockets of his duster and rolling his shoulders back, casting a quick, sideways glance my way as he does. I nod to show I've understood him, that our talk from a moment ago has hit home for me.

Giles steps forward in response to the vampire's question, scanning the rows of parked cars and public transportation in front of us, probably looking for a taxi. "We'll want to stay further uptown, away from Wolfram and Hart's offices." He turns back around to glance at us, and I don't miss the way his eyes seem to always find their way back to mine now. If it had been like this earlier, before, I hadn't noticed. Hadn't known to notice it. But everything's different now. I force myself to hold eye contact with him, almost afraid to blink as he scans my face for fear of giving something away. "At least until we come up with a workable plan," he finishes.

Dad nods again and steps up to the curb, waving to one of the taxis parked a little ways away from us. "Well, there's no shortage of motels in the area." He glances toward Giles as the taxi pulls up into the space in front of us. "I say we just grab a cab and head that way."

Giles finally looks away from me to meet Dad's eyes, seeming to think it over briefly before nodding his head in turn. I automatically move for the back door of the cab but Giles beats me to it, stepping up to the curb and pulling it open for me.

I freeze, giving a little stutter step and almost causing Spike to crash into my back, wondering if I would have thought anything at all about this small, seemingly nothing exchange just hours ago. Now, everything feels…purposeful. Intentional.

If anyone else notices, though, nobody says anything. Dad just opens the passenger side door and hops inside, slamming it shut behind him. Not knowing what else to do, I offer Giles a small, grateful smile and slip into the cab. Spike moves around the driver's side door and gets in, too, leaving me sandwiched in the back seat between the two biggest embodiments of just how absolutely insane my life has become. Riding in a cab with the man who raised me, my vampire lover and the biological father I didn't even know existed until a day ago. And to do what? To find a way to break into some evil law firm's archive department so we can get our hands on the prophecy that'll tell us whether or not it's gonna be me with the apocalypse bringing.

Because this. This is my life now.

So I take a deep breath and force myself to think it again now, feeling the reassuring pressure of Spike's leather clad shoulder against mine as the cab pulls away from the curb and tears off in the direction of uptown Los Angeles.

One step at a time.

We have just enough time before sunrise to stop off at one of those open 24-hour stores on the way uptown to grab a few things we might need. I head immediately for a change of clothes, and immediately after that for the shampoo. And then, on a whim, I grab for a vanilla scented body spray and another tube of that mascara I love, the kind Spike had bought for me at the Q-mart in Colorado. I don't know why. Don't have the faintest, fuzziest inkling why it feels like it matters, whether or not I have any makeup on my face while the rest of the world crumbles in around me.

It just…does. Or at least that's the lame answer I give Spike when he asks me about it once we're back in the cab.

The motel we end up at isn't exactly the Ritz, but it isn't one of Spike's favored rattraps, either. And, thank God for small favors, this one happens to have decent water pressure and sheets that might actually be higher than 300 thread count. The only down side? Because it isn't a rattrap, rooms are apparently a good deal more on the we can't afford them side. So we end up with all four of us piled into one, two queen beds and one bathroom that's way smaller than I think any of us feel comfortable with.

The first thing I do when we arrive is call dibs on the shower, taking my bag of fresh clothes and strawberry scented shampoo into the comically small bathroom with me as soon as the motel room door shuts behind us. I take my time showering, soaking up all the hot water, lathering every inch of my skin with warm, strawberry scented suds. Trying real hard not to think about, but knowing anyway, that whatever reality it is that's waiting for me outside the steam filled room isn't exactly a reality I'm jazzed about re-entering.

But eventually I have to. Eventually, I have to shut off the water and dry myself off, slip into the fresh pair of jeans and new emerald green cotton shirt I'd picked up for myself, and step directly into the middle of…something.

There's definitely something happening in the room when I open the bathroom door and step out. I don't know what something exactly, because all three men inexplicably stop talking as soon as I open the bathroom door.

"What's going on?" I ask slowly, coming more fully into the room and glancing back and forth between three different pairs, three different shades, of blue.

"Nothin', pet," Spike says immediately, crossing the room and dropping down into a standard-looking wooden desk chair opposite the two beds. Dad looks away from me, folding his arms over his chest and Giles puts one hand in his jacket pocket and reaches the other up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Okay.

I frown, turning toward Spike and raising a skeptical brow. "Doesn't look like nothing."

"We were simply discussing our plan, Buffy," Giles explains to me after a brief pause, dropping his hand down away from his nose and giving me a small, tight lipped smile.

"Oh," I say, crossing toward the overstuffed chair in the far corner of the room and dropping my few toiletries and the folded dirty clothes up on its cushion. Frowning down at the few items, feeling my cheeks getting hot the more I think about it. "And you guys couldn't wait for me to get out of the shower before discussing the plan?" I ask now, turning around to face the three of them, folding my arms over my chest. For some reason, whatever reason, all the millions of reasons…I'm starting to get majorly frustrated. Like, why did they feel the need to discuss the plan while I was in the shower? And why do they always seem to do this clamming up thing as soon as I walk into the room?

It's starting to really bug.

"It wasn't anything serious, honey," Dad promises me, uncrossing his arms and sitting down on the edge of one the queen beds, leaning forward to brace his arms over his thighs. "Just talking."

I nod thoughtfully, pursing my lips. Only half listening and still flushing hot. "I guess I'm just in time then." I drop down onto the edge of the chair behind me and exhale a sigh, feeling my shoulders sag a little. "Where exactly are we at with this nothing serious plan?"

No one makes a move to answer me right away, which only makes me even more frustrated. Another moment, a long pause. I raise both eyebrows high, glancing expectantly around the room. Giles steps toward me, tilting his head to the side as he looks at me. That same, too-intense look from before on his face. "You're certain you're feeling up to this?" he asks me, his eyes narrowed slightly as they sweep my face. "Perhaps you should try and get some rest. You've been through quite a bit."

For the second time tonight, I almost laugh. Not a ha-ha, this is all so freaking funny kind of a laugh, but the kind that stands a pretty decent chance at dissolving into hysterical sobs if given the chance. You have no idea, I think wryly, keeping the impassive expression fixed on my face. I shake my head instead of saying what I'm thinking, glancing away from the intensity of his eyes, and lie. "I rested on the plane."

Another pause. Then, Dad this time, his voice low and verging on just this side of patronizing. "Buffy—"

My hands tighten into fists where I have them crossed, my nails digging hard into my skin through the thin cotton T as a white hot flash of anger, real anger, skitters in a ripple down my back. "I'm fine, okay?" I say forcefully, whipping my eyes up to pin Dad with a hard look, my voice strained. Too loud in the motel room. And tired.

Because I hadn't rested on the plan. And yea, I am tired. Tired of everyone thinking they know what's best for me, tired of everyone trying so damn hard to protect me all the time that the people around me end up getting hurt in the process. Why can't anybody but me understand that I'm not exactly the one who needs protecting anymore?

"Look," I say now, closing my eyes briefly, reigning the surge of rage back in before opening them again and gesturing toward one of the beds. "I'm not going to be doing anyone any good lying there, tossing and turning." I drop my hand back down into my lap with a thud. "I want to be helpful. I…" I trail off, sighing and letting the muscles in my shoulders sag. "I need to be helpful."

The room goes silent again. My eyes are down, focused on a spot in the carpet in front of my feet rather than the three way too quiet men in front of me. Finally, after what feels like a really long moment, I hear the rustle of leather on wood and know Spike's just pushed himself up to his feet.

"You heard the girl," he says, and I look up at him in time to see him crossing the room toward me. He comes to a stop once he reaches my chair, pulling his duster off and tossing it over the back before dropping down onto the armrest beside me.

"Right," Giles says after another moment, sharing a look with Dad that I can't quite read from where I'm sitting before glancing back toward us. "Well, let's start with what we know and go from there, shall we?"

I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Do we even know what we know?" I ask lamely, meeting Giles's eyes with mine.

"I was referring to what we know about Wolfram and Hart's Los Angeles branch," he explains to me, obviously only reiterating something he's told both Spike and Dad already once before, only saying it now for my benefit. "The building itself, rather than about the prophecy."

Dad nods from his position on the opposite bed, his eyes fixed on something in front of him. "We know it's going to be armed to the teeth," he says, glancing up toward where Spike and I are sitting. "Always is."

"True," Giles says simply, and again I get the feeling that the three of them have been through all of this once before.

"And 's more'n likely they'll be expectin' us to show," Spike adds from beside me, drawing my attention up toward him. He glances down at me, his eyes back to being a sparkling azure in the soft lamplight filling the room now. The sun's been up for a little while at least, but the heavy black out drapes had already been drawn over the windows by the time I'd come out of the bathroom.

"Also, unfortunately," Giles says, the words leaving his lips on a sigh. "True."

I think this over, turning my eyes away from Spike and back in the direction of Dad and Giles. I frown, thinking about the implications of trying to bust into a very well armed, possibly very expectant Wolfram and Hart.

"What about us?" I ask, eyes moving back and forth between the two older men. "Will we have weapons?"

The room goes creepily quiet again, and suddenly no one is looking at me. I frown, brow furrowing as I twist in the chair to look back up at my vampire. He's looking down at me with this weird look on his face, like the question is a ridiculous one. Like the answer should be so obvious.

"Buffy, luv," Spike finally says, voice low, raising his scarred eyebrow meaningfully. "We are the weapons."

I blink up at him. Once, twice. Then, "Oh."

Oh.

Right.

There's that whole…demony connection thing that happens when we fight. I guess I'd kind of forgotten, what with…well, everything else. Was that really just two nights ago?

"We'll have to find some…real weapons, too," Dad assures me readily when he sees the stricken look on my face. Then he pauses, sighing. "But, yeah. Nothing we have is going to be quite as effective as the two of you."

It sounds almost like it pains him to say it, to admit it. And maybe like it's something he'd rather not have to acknowledge at all. That the little girl he's raised as his daughter can be considered some kind of weapon, even now. Even before the prophecy is complete. And that the reason why is because, in his mind, he's failed to protect me.

Which I'm guessing has a lot to do with what he'd not been wanting me to know about the "plan".

"So that solves one issue," Spike says breezily, like the whole thing is a non-issue. Clearly more at ease with the whole being weapons scenario than I am. "What about the other?"

"The other?" I ask, twisting around to look at him again.

He just nods, turning his eyes way from mine and up toward Giles and Dad. "How we plannin' to get in in the first place?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back and titling his head to the side. "Not exactly a burst in through the front door, guns blazin' type scenario."

I don't know who's more surprised when Dad responds to Spike's assessment with a nod of his head and a low, appreciative chuckle. Me or the vampire.

"No," Dad says, shaking his head and glancing back down to the floor in front of him. "It isn't."

And I'm thinking about it now. No, definitely not exactly a go in through the front door scenario. But the front door, that can't be the only way in. Not to someplace like Wolfram and Hart.

"Isn't there like…a back door or something?" I ask, searching out Dad's eyes, waiting for him to look at me before continuing on. "One of those secret passage thingies like the one we escaped down in New York?"

Dad just looks at me, a wry half smile curving his lips as he shakes his head. "Getting into the building isn't going to be the problem," is all he says, pushing off his legs so that he's sitting up straight on the edge of the bed. I watch as his expression clouds a little. "It's the archive department itself that I'm worried about."

I make a face at him, squinting my eyes a little. "I'm going to assume that means they don't just leave their super top secret archive department unguarded."

Dad nods, getting back up to his feet. "That'd be a strong assumption," he says glibly, turning his back on us and taking a few steps toward the motel room door.

"Right then," Spike says, hopping lithely to his feet. He claps his hands once and begins rubbing them together. "What are we talkin'? Trip wires? Alarms?" He pauses for a response, doesn't get one, and pushes on. "Good old fashioned flyin' arrows and spears type booby traps?"

Dad pauses to glance back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Like this is some sort of private joke. "Probably all the above."

Spike drops his hands immediately and he lets out a long, low whistle.

Dad nods. "Yeah."

"Right," I say quickly. "We got it. Problem." I frown, shaking my head. "But there's gotta be some way to turn off the alarm system or…whatever it is, right?"

My question strikes some kind of chord with Dad, because his expression suddenly shifts and he turns back around to face us. His brow is furrowed, like he's thinking really hard about something.

Giles notices it too. "Hank?" he prompts, taking a small step toward him.

"It might be as simple as doing a little wire cutting," Dad says, speaking slowly, like he's choosing his words very carefully. But there's something else in his voice, too. Something almost hopeful.

"Might be," Spike repeats, emphasizing the word as he inclines his head forward, brows raised. "Meaning?"

Dad shoots him a withering glance. "Meaning we can give it a shot."

Giles nods, starting to pace slightly himself, his eyes down on the ground in front of him and his voice low. "I'm afraid we'll have to if we want any chance at all of finding the original prophecy text and separating fact from fiction."

"But," Dad says now, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and shaking his head like he's just remembered something hugely important. "Even if we manage to turn off the alarm systems, there're still the cameras to deal with." He shares a meaningful look with Giles, gesturing absently like he's reminding him of something he already knows. "Wolfram and Hart has cameras everywhere."

Definitely something we should have thought of before. Hadn't I seen cameras in the New Yokr branch, too? Or were those just run-of-the-mill alarms? I can't remember now. It seems like forever ago.

I frown, pushing myself to my feet. Needing to stand. Like standing is going to help me think more clearly. "We couldn't just cut those wires, too?" I ask, not understanding why one would be "as simple as" and the other would be seemingly impossible.

But Dad just shakes his head, reaching a hand up to feather through his sandy colored hair. "It's a completely different system, Buffy. The surveillance is set up in a different part of the building that's not nearly as easy to access."

Oh.

I guess that's why.

"Well," Giles muses slowly, and he and Dad turn to face each other, "What if we tried…"

I stop listening. Giles and Dad begin talking to each other in low tones, trying to work through our semi-plan's issues, and I find myself just completely tuning them out, working through it all on my own. Spike crosses back to me but doesn't say anything. Just stands beside me while I think.

I'm wishing now that I'd been conscious when they'd carted us into the New York branch the first time around. Not that the two buildings would be identical by any means, but maybe it might have helped us out now. Maybe the surveillance room would be in the same place, or the alarm systems would be, or…something about one building might inform the other. If I were an evil law firm, where would I keep all my technical equipment? None of this seems right. There has to be a way in that doesn't involve tripping alarm systems or getting caught on candid camera. And that's when I realize…

We're going about this the wrong way, trying to play by the normal rules, when what we're up against is anything but normal. Wolfram and Hart is an evil law firm that represents the worst of the worst big bads in the world, deal in manipulating world ending prophecies and hire out vampires to do their dirty work. We can't go at this like our enemy is anything other than the big cosmic evil they apparently are. And my eyes whip toward Dad just as I remember exactly what it is he used to do for them.

"Is there a reason we can't just use a spell?" I ask suddenly, my voice loud and clear, cutting through the dim murmur of Dad's and Giles's voices and drawing both of their attention's back in my direction.

"A spell?" Giles repeats, his brow furrowed as he blinks at me. Dad looks confused, too.

"Yeah," I say, gesturing with a sweep of my arm toward the two of them. "You guys are all into your cloaking spells or whatever." And I can't help the slight tinge of bitterness to my voice as I say it, a little of that familiar frustration from earlier rearing up again. "Is there some reason you can't you just…cloak us?"

"It's not that simple, honey," Dad says immediately, moving forward around the end of the beds and towards me. "Cloaking spells work great for fixed locations but they aren't nearly as reliable when used on…moving targets."

"Besides that," Giles chimes in, exchanging a long look with Dad. "What you're really talking about is an invisibility spell."

I roll my eyes, not in the mood for nit picking. Not in the mood for them, either of them, to waste our time telling me how yet another idea of mine might be risky. "Whatever spell it is that could hide us from the cameras," I say, folding my arms over my chest.

"Both those spells are complicated, Buffy." Dad shakes his head again, looking away from me and back down toward the ground. He drops his voice, like he's talking more to himself than to anyone else. Doing the math in his head. "The amount of magic it would take just to cover one of us, let alone two or more–"

And instantly, the words are out, falling past my lips before I can stop them or think twice. "Then just do me."

There's a brief pause.

Then… "What?" Spike says loudly, almost a snarl as he whirls around to face me. I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face, but I'm not looking at him, my eyes fixed instead on Dad.

"Just do you," Dad repeats slowly, frowning. "By yourself."

I nod. "That's what I said."

"Buffy, sweetheart," he says, reaching toward me, putting both hands palm up in front of him as if to calm me down. Which is funny, because I actually feel more calm in this moment than I have in what feels like ages. "We don't even know if we'll need to skirt surveillance yet or not."

I frown deeper, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't you just say there were cameras everywhere?"

Dad opens his mouth to respond, but it's Giles who speaks next, beating him to it. "That might be," he says slowly, the same ultra-soothing tone to his voice. Like everyone suddenly thinks I've gone off the deep end or something. "But if we're somehow able to find and cut the video feed it wouldn't be strictly necessary to cloak you, Buffy."

I make a face at him, shaking my head. The more I think about that idea, the less of a good one it sounds like. "And you don't think that'd set off several red flags for Wolfram and Hart? If their security cameras suddenly all went poof." I emphasize the word with a little starburst action of my my hand. "All with the wonky?"

There's another long pause as everyone seems to consider what I've said.

Giles speaks first. "Buffy, please—"

My hands curl into fists at my sides. "Buffy, please, what?" I ask, and I don't even try to keep the anger out of my voice now. "You know I'm right."

And I am. I know I am. Clipping the alarm is all fine and good, if we can find it, but there's no way we'll be able to break into the archives, get what we need and get back out again without being seen if what Dad's said is true, and cutting the feed is the quickest way to alert security there's been a breach. And that's if, if, we were able to find their surveillance room without getting spotted in the first place.

"It could be our best option," Dad admits finally, letting out a long, slow exhale and reaching a hand up to scrub it down over his face.

Beside me, Spike scoffs. "Oh, you've got to be fuckin' joking."

"I'm afraid he's right," Giles says quietly, inclining his head toward the small bedside table, the lamp that sits on it. More an absent gesture than anything else. "If the invisibility spell is our most viable option to avoid detection, it would make the most sense for one of us to use it and go in alone."

"And that one of us should be me," I say simply.

"Have you all gone completely sack of hammers?" My vampire shouts not even a half-second later, his voice booming, practically a roar in the cramped space of the motel room.

I twist around to face him, sighing. "Spike, please," I say softly, consciously lowering my voice to a level where I'm fairly sure only he can hear me.

Spike does the same, leaning toward me as he does. "No." He shakes his head. "No sodding way am I lettin' you do this alone."

I angle my body toward his to afford us a little privacy, dropping my voice as low as I can so that I'm sure he can still hear me. "We might not have another choice."

His eyes flash, gleaming azure darkening to navy even as I watch. "There's always another choice," he growls.

"Except when there isn't," I say, searching his eyes with mine. "If there's a way to do this spell thingy and I can get in and out without anybody at Wolfram and Hart ever knowing I'm there, why wouldn't we do that?"

Spike barks a low, harsh laugh and leans in even closer to me. "I can think of several damn good reasons why."

"Like?" I prompt, fighting the urge to rock back on my heels and fold my arms over my chest.

Spike raises both eyebrows, cocking his head to the side and widening his eyes. "For starters, you don't even know what the bloody fuck you're lookin' for." He blinks at me, long lashes fluttering quickly against his cheeks. "You tellin' me you can find this text all on your lonesome?"

I nod without thinking, unfazed by the venom in his voice. I know it isn't directed at me. Not really. "If someone can tell me what I'm looking for."

But the vampire just shakes his head, his voice low and strained, eyes swirling with flecks of gold. "There's gotta be another way to do this."

"You heard what Giles and Dad said," I remind him, gentling my voice a little. Sensing it, seeing it in the set of his lips and the way his shoulders are starting to sag a little. That I'm winning. "It would take too much magic to…" I sigh. "It has to just be one."

And it has to just be me.

"Then why not let someone else go?" He asks me, like he's just read my mind. The tone in his voice softens too, turning less angry and more pleading. He angles himself closer to me, and I can see his eyes are gleaming. Lashes wet. My breath catches in my throat as I gaze up at him, hating this. Hating that what I know I need to do is coming at this expense. "Why's it gotta be you?"

And the answer is so simple. So, so super simple to me that it comes without really having to think about it at all. Directly on the heels of a small shrug, of an even smaller half-smile. "Because it has to be me." Because I'm the one who needs answers. Because I'm the one who's life is going to be the most affected. Because I'm the reason, at the end of the day, that all of this has happened. That my mom is dead. That people are after my dad. That people are after my father. Because if for some reason this plan doesn't work, if for some reason they do catch me, it won't matter. They won't hurt me. They can't. So yeah, it has to be me.

Because it just does.

Spike sucks in a deep, unneeded breath and exhales slowly, letting the air out through pursed lips, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he does. Then he tilts his head to the side, his eyes softening as he reaches a hand up and places it against my cheek.

"What if they find you?" he asks me softly, his voice still very low and obviously for my ears only.

I just shrug, feeling better, more confident than I have in days. Something about knowing what I have to do, knowing I have a means to do it I think. Knowing I won't be risking anyone elses life but mine. "What if they do?" I ask back, leaning my cheek further into his hand. "They're not going to hurt me, Spike. They can't," I tell him what it is I've just been thinking. "They need me."

And I know he can't argue with me here, because he's the one who made this point to begin with, all those days ago. Seems like lifetimes now. And Spike knows it, too. I can read it written all over his face. "There's no talkin' you out of this, is there?" he asks me, raising an eyebrow. I answer him by wrinkling my nose up, a wry quirk of my lips.

Spike sighs again, this one sounding a little more like a low growl as he rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, the muscle ticking in his jaw as he does. "The second," he breathes, sweeping his thumb over the curve of my cheek as he turns his eyes back to mine, "the bloody second I start to sense things might be goin' wrong—"

"You'll make with the big rescue," I finish for him, reaching up to cover his hand with mine, squeezing gently. "I know."

And he leans in suddenly and captures my mouth with his. It isn't a small kiss, isn't gentle and it isn't quick, either. It's possessive and wild, deep and open mouthed as he tugs me more closely to him. For a moment it's like we're the only two people in the room.

And then he pulls away from me, his lips still close, almost ghosting over mind as he whispers "I love you."

I know Giles and Dad are staring at us now. Can feel their eyes on our profiles, but can't get myself to really care in this moment. Not with his hand cool and soft against my cheek. Not as we stand here and stare at each other. Not as I whisper "I love you" back to him.

But then the moment passes, and I realize how awkwardly silent the room has grown around us.

"So," I say, turning back to face the two older men, super, hyper aware in this moment now that they're both looking at me with matching horrified expressions. And this time I know exactly why. I clear my throat, reaching my hand up to brush against my swollen lips. "About making me invisible…"

"Do you feel comfortable with this version of the plan, Buffy?" Giles asks me from where he's seated, opposite me on one of the queen beds. Dad's on the floor, his supplies spread out in front of him on a towel from the bathroom. Spike's leaning as far as he dares out the now open window, smoking what has to be his eighth cigarette in the last two hours from the pack he'd bought at the store on the way to the motel. Not that he's in much, if any, danger of burning to a bleached blonde crisp at this point. The sun is just about to set. I can see the last orangey purple light of dusk from the crack he's opened in the drapes.

I take a deep breath, feeling the way the air fills my lungs all the way up before exhaling again. "I don't know if comfortable's the right word," I tell him honestly, thinking it all over again in my head. I make a face, half shrugging. "Maybe…a little itchy?" I pause, thinking it over. "Like…I'm wearing a wool sweater with this version of the plan."

This earns a short, appreciative chuckle from Giles, and he nods his head. "You'll be just fine," he tells me, looking at me with soft, grey eyes from behind the lenses of his glasses. "I have complete faith in you."

I look at the man sitting across from me, blinking, that same gut wrenching, panicky feeling from earlier in the morning swelling in my chest as I do. I clear my throat, tearing my gaze away from his. "That makes one of us," I mumble, more to have something to say than because it's what I'm really thinking. Again, still, trying not to think too much about Spike and my conversation on the plane, pushing it all to the back of mind…filing it away under "deal with post-apocalypse".

"Two of us," Dad chimes in from his spot on the floor, and I turn to glance over my shoulder at him. He smiles at me, and I force myself to smile back.

"Three, if you wanna get technical 'bout it," Spike adds, taking a last drag off his cigarette before flicking it out the open window and turning back to face us. We're all looking at the vampire, expressions varying degrees of bemused. He frowns. "What? Thought we were all pilin' in there."

"Thanks," I say softly, giving my vampire as genuine a smile as I can manage, the knots in my stomach tightening just a little. So far today, through the morning and through most of the afternoon, I've been able to keep the worse end of my nerves at bay. But the closer we'd gotten to sunset, the worse my anxiety had gotten. Worse and worse, until now I feel like there're about ten thousand butterflies fluttering their wings all the way from the pit of my stomach up to my throat. A feeling that must be written all over my face now, if the expression on Spike's face is any indication.

"You havin' second thoughts, luv?" He asks me, crossing the room and stopping beside my bed, looking down at me with worried eyes.

I shake my head. "No," I explain quickly. "Not exactly." I sigh, pushing myself to my feet and turning to face him. "I mean, I still think this is our best bet."

"Not only that," Giles says from behind me, and I hear a shifting sound and know he's gotten up to his feet, too. "But I honestly believe it could work."

In front of me, Spike stiffens. "Could?" he repeats the word, his voice hard, eyeing Giles with fierce eyes from over my shoulder.

"Will," I say quickly, my voice sounding more sure than I expect it to. I wait until the twinkling indigo find their way back to me before continuing. "It will work."

Spike narrows his eyes on me, scanning my face for a long moment before finally sighing, reaching both his arms up to fold them over his chest. When he speaks, his voice is very low. "You better be real damn sure about this, pet."

This. He doesn't mean the plan itself. He means me being the one to execute said plan.

"The damndest," I say, trying to smile and keeping my voice breezy and light.

There's a sudden, loud knock at the door and instantly, all four of us are suddenly on edge, all four of our heads snapping in the direction of the faux wood panel. My hackles are raised, the hair of the back of my neck standing on end, muscles coiled and tight. No one knows we're here. No one. Unless Dad or Giles reached out to someone and didn't tell me, which…I guess they could have.

I whip my head toward Dad, opening my mouth to ask him just that but stop short at the panicked expression on his face, watching him scramble up to his feet and take a few steps toward the door. And before I can think, before I can ask anyone what the hell is going on, a metallic clicking sound cuts through the eerie silence. The noise of a keycard being inserted and the heavy automatic deadbolt sliding back.

It all happens so fast.

Giles steps around the edge of the bed closer to Dad, the two of them forming a small barrier between the vampire and I and the door in the same instant that Spike reaches for me. All of them moving at once, on instinct. My vampire wraps a strong hand tight around my arm and yanks me back so that his body's partially shielding mine a second, split second, before the motel door swings wide open.

My reaction is instant, stomach bottoming out, chest tightening as my pulse picks up and begins pounding against my ribs. Of all the people, of all the things that could have been standing behind that door, he's the last one I'd expected.

Angelus.

"Well, gosh," the hulking brunette drawls, his voice mocking and light as he folds his arms across his chest and leans casually against the doorjamb. His eyes are cold as they scan the room, the cruel twist of his lips a mocking half-grin. "Sure hope I'm not interrupting anything."

No one says a word. No one moves. It's like we're all suddenly frozen, deer in the proverbial damn headlights. I'm too shocked to say anything, can't think of anything to say, can barely think at all. Except for the one question that's echoing in my head now.

How the hell did he find us?

"So," Angelus continues, not moving from his casual position in the open doorway. In front of me, Spike's moved so that he's slightly hunched forward in the beginnings of a fighting stance. "We have our star crossed lovers," his cold eyes glide toward Dad, "the doting father…" he shifts his gaze to Giles and his eyes widen dramatically. "…and, oh, even the Watcher's son." He turns back to look at me, making eye contact with me over Spike's shoulder. "Looks like all the important people are here." And I watch mutely as he pushes himself off the door, raising one large hand up and snapping his fingers. A bare second later and the room floods with people, ten, maybe twelve of what look like the same black-masked guards from New York. They're everywhere, filling every corner of the room and surrounding the four of us before I can even blink, sparking rods and a few wooden stakes in hand, all angled in towards us. Spike's grip on my wrist tightens on me instantly and he tugs me forward, wrapping his arms around me and shielding me from the men now at my back.

A motel room. Black-masked guards. Angelus.

The whole thing is the worst kind of deja vu.

In front of us, Angelus is still smirking wickedly. He tilts his head to the side and takes a step further into the room, clasping his hands behind his back. "I'm guessing our invitations just got lost in the mail."

Behind me, Spike growls. "Get bent, you miserable sod."

But Angelus just ignores him, turning his attention instead toward Giles and Dad. He steps right up into Dad's personal space, eyeing him disdainfully, lips twisting in that cold mockery of a smile. My fingers itch, curling into fists at my side and I know if Spike weren't holding on to me, I'd be making a bee-line straight for the brunette vampire.

"You know, it's funny," he muses thoughtfully, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and biting down on it with blunt teeth. "When Holland asked me to fly out here and wait for you, I thought it was such a waste of my time." He moves slowly away from Dad, turning and narrowing a laser-like focus on Giles now, instead. "I thought to myself…there's no way they could ever be that stupid. And yet," Angelus laughs, the sound high and bright as he turns from Giles and gestures with a sweep of his arm around the room, "here you are." The brunette vampire turns his eyes up to the ceiling, tilting his head back, bending his knees and leaning into the movement with his body when he says it. "God, when I saw the four of you pile into that cab I couldn't believe my luck."

My eyes go wide. "You followed us here," I murmur, understanding dawning even as I say the words.

"Man," Angelus says sharply, this weird sort of bitter humor in his voice as he whips his head back down, the same twisted smirk on his lips as he looks at me. "There you go again with those razor sharp observation skills, Buff." He lowers his voice to a menacing murmur, narrowing his eyes. "Impressive, really." Then he whirls around, taking a few, deliberate steps back toward the direction of the door as he continues on. "Of course, then the sun came up and I had to go back for reinforcements—"

"Couldn't handle us yourself, then, is that it?" Spike asks mockingly, cutting the older vampire off mid-sentence.

This has Angelus whipping back around to face us, a cold, dark expression shadowing his features for a brief moment before the twisted grin is suddenly firmly back in place. He steps closer to us and Spike stiffens, his arms coming down to tighten protectively around me.

"You know better than to speak before you're spoken to," Angelus purrs, his voice smooth and low and sending goose bumps prickling all over my skin, "Willy."

"How did you find the room?" Dad asks, drawing the hulking vampire's attention away from us and back toward him.

He chuckles darkly, like he's all too happy to keep explaining to us how incredibly stupid we are, how easy it was for him to find us. "I didn't have any trouble…" and he trails off, another short, low laugh passing his lips as he bites at the bottom one again, "…convincing the sweet girl at the front desk to fill me in." Angelus raises his hand and shows off the plastic little key card he's still holding there. "Made me my own key and everything." He steps directly into Dad's personal space again, and I watch as he takes an involuntary half step away from the imposing vampire.

"So what now?" I ask, wanting the deadly vampire's attention on Spike and me rather than on Dad and Giles. At least the two of us have a shot in hell of taking him on, if we have to. "You take us all back to Wolfram and Hart and hand us over to Holland?"

But Angelus barely looks at me, like I haven't even spoken. Completely different than the last time around when all he seemed to want to do was focus those dead eyes on me. Those eyes are still glued to Dad, and I watch as he just smirks more widely, giving a short, cold shake of his head as he murmurs "Not exactly."

And a second later, the two armed guards closest to Giles reach forward, one grabbing him hard by the arm and the other stabbing him in the neck with one of their long, sparking black cattle prods. White hot panic floods my system all over again, pushing all thoughts of self-preservation out of my mind and filling my veins with searing, stinging rage.

"Giles," I call out, making a move to go to him instinctively, but Spike's hold on me is too strong and the armed guards at our backs instantly press forward, pinning us in and keeping us from getting to him. I watch helplessly as the man I've just learned is my father cries out just once before crumbling into a heap, and the two men promptly drag him out of the room.

"No," I shout, pulling hard against Spike's hold on my waist, scraping at his skin with my nails, heedless of the masked guards that still surround the rest of us.

"Buffy, no," Spike whispers urgently in my ear, gripping me more tightly, pulling me back hard against his chest.

Angelus just stares at me, looking slightly amused by my reaction. His eyes are hard and cold with a kind of flat, burning hatred, the same empty smile curving his lips. A few endless moments pass, and finally, finally, he snaps his fingers again and the guards pull away from us. "You all have a nice a night," he says coldly, flicking the used plastic key card toward me. It lands at my feet, and a moment later he's gone, a swirl of black following him out the door and down the hallway as quickly as they'd suddenly appeared, the heavy door clicking shut behind them as they go.

I stand still, stunned, completely frozen for maybe a full thirty seconds before I start struggling in Spike's arms again. "Let me go," I hiss, pulling at the steel-banded arms around my waist. "We have to go after them!"

"Buffy, no," Spike says again, loudly this time, his grip tightening so hard around me that I almost can't breathe.

"What do you mean no?" I ask angrily, gritting my teeth together.

"Can't risk you goin' after 'em," he breathes, sounding like he's struggling for unneeded air himself. "Not now. Not before we've thought this through."

I struggle for a minute more before his words start to settle in and I dimly realize that he's right. Rushing to the rescue, going in unprepared. That's probably what they want us to do. And so far, all we've been doing is exactly what they want us to do.

My shoulders relax and Spike's arms release me. I stumble a little ways forward, chest heaving, heart still pounding wildly. I kind of can't believe what's just happened.

"How the bloody hell'd they know we'd come back here?" Spike asks from behind me, directing the question at Dad's back. He isn't looking at us, though. Still staring blankly, straight ahead at the doorway.

"Holland must have known," I say, my voice hoarse, still feeling stunned. Confused. I turn back around to face my vampire. "Or guessed…guessed we'd have to come back here for answers."

Spike nods, stepping toward me again. He reaches a hand up to brush a tangled strand of hair away from my face. "Safe to say we were right on track with the bit about them expectin' us."

"Why'd they just take Giles?" I ask, ignoring his attempt at levity and searching his eyes with mine, frowning. It doesn't make sense to me. Sure, I know there's something about Giles that makes him important to them, but to only take him…to only take him when all four of us had been standing right here. I frown deeper. "He barely even looked twice at me."

The vampire thinks about it for a minute before he answers me. "Fuckin' wanker prob'ly knows we'll come after the old man," he says, putting his hands on his hips and tilting his head in the direction of the door. "Easier on them if we walk ourselves right into whatever bloody trap it is they've set, no doubt."

But that can't be the only reason, isn't the only reason. And we both know it.

"We have to go after him," I whisper urgently, thinking of everything I've just found out, all the questions I haven't had a chance to ask yet.

Spike drops his hand away from my face and nods. "And we will, pet. But we need to think about this, yeah?" He tilts his head to the side, worried eyes scanning my face as though looking for some unseen injury he knows is there. "Can't just be rushin' into a rescue half cocked."

"He's right, Buffy," Dad says quietly, still not looking at me. His eyes are glued to the door, his shoulders tense. "Besides, we have a little time."

I struggle to wrap my head around what's happening right now, that they've just taken Giles, that Dad seems to be nearly catatonic, that we can't go after them until we've thought it all through. I struggle to understand it all for another minute longer until Dad's words finally sink in and I realize that he's just said.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, pulling slowly away from Spike and stepping forward. My eyes are narrowed, brow furrowed. "What do you mean, we have a little time?"

But Dad still isn't looking at me. His eyes are fixed to the doorframe and he's talking, low and fast, under his breath. Talking to himself. "I don't know how they could have figured it out," he mutters, shaking his head. "I never told…I never…not anyone."

"Hank," Spike prompts, no doubt that wiggy vamp hearing of his letting him in on exactly what it is Dad's saying now. Already like he knows what he's talking about.

I think I have an idea, too.

"We all worked so hard, planned so well, to keep you safe," he mutters, shaking his head. I step up to him, leaning forward to look into his face. "To keep any of this from ever happening." His eyes suddenly find mine, blue and gleaming, his lashes wet. "Oh, Buffy," he breathes, snapping out of the semi-catatonic state and reaching for me, pulling me into the circle of his arms and squeezing me tightly. "Honey, I'm so sorry. I should have told you years ago."

I twist my head to the side to meet Spike's worried gaze. He gives me a small nod. I swallow hard, a lump in my throat for about the millionth time and more twisty, turning knots in my stomach. "Told me what?" I ask.

Dad shakes his head, and I can hear him sniffling slightly where his head is buried in my hair. "I don't even know how to say it," he whispers, sounding pained.

I inhale sharply, pushing lightly at dad's waist to pull myself out of his arms. "Just say it," I tell him, finding his eyes with mine, needing to see his face.

Just say it, because I already know.

"You know you'll always be my little girl, right?" he asks me pitifully, and the pain and fear and plain out anguish in his eyes has the breath catching halfway down to my lungs, my own eyes stinging a little in anticipation of what he's about to tell me, of hearing him say it. "No matter what happens?"

I know. It's what I should say. I know. It's alright. Everything's going to be okay. I love you. All of these are options, are things I should say. Promises I should make. But I can't bring myself to say any of it now. Not now.

"Tell me," I say instead, not wanting to drag this out any longer. Just ready. Ready for all our cards to be out on the table.

Dad nods, taking a deep breath, letting the words pass his lips quickly as he exhales. "The reason Wolfram and Hart took Rupert, Buffy, is because he's your father." He pauses meaningfully, that same anxious look in his eyes. "Your biological father."

It's funny, and probably a little large with the messed up, that my first reaction is instant, gut wrenching relief. Relief, pulsing and pounding and strong, floods my chest immediately. To hear Dad say the words, for him to finally tell me. To know that yes, he did know. Has always known. That this isn't some deep, dark secret I have to keep to myself for the rest of my life.

"Giles is my biological father," I repeat softly, finally able to say the words out loud now. And even though I know there's too much going on, that said biological father is currently in grave danger and that somehow, someway, Dad knows more about that then he's let on until now, I feel like a weight's been lifted.

Dad blinks at me, pulling back a little ways and searching my eyes seriously. "You already knew," he murmurs, his voice low, brow furrowed deeply as he scans my face. Like he's looking for answers.

"I…umm," I stammer awkwardly, blinking rapidly and taking my own step back. I'd been so relieved to hear the words that I hadn't schooled my own response. "Well…I mean—"

"Sort of beat you to the punch, mate," Spike interjects, and he's suddenly standing beside me. I hadn't even noticed him crossing the room.

Dad's eyes whip toward the bleached blonde, flashing angrily. Any trace of pain that had been in them moments ago momentarily vanishing. "What?"

But Spike just shrugs, unaffected. "Told her on the plane."

"How the hell did you know?" Dad asks him heatedly, his jaw clenching.

"Does it matter?" Spike counters, fixing Dad with a cool expression. Lips set in a firm line, both brows raised.

It doesn't, and we all seem to know it, because Dad backs down almost immediately. He shakes his head slowly, turning his eyes away from Spike and back toward me. "I never wanted you to find out like this," he whispers, his voice strained. "I never wanted you to find out at all." His eyes are pleading again, searching mine as he reaches for me. But I step away on instinct, not quite ready for the making nice part of this little come to Jesus moment.

"You should have told me," I say flatly. No use in sugar coating any of it now. Spike knows, Dad knows, Wolfram and Hart sure as hell knows. And now I know, too. Everyone knows. And everyone, everyone else, had known before me. So the anger I'm feeling, the anger I'm allowing myself to feel, seems pretty massively justified to me. "You should have told me all of this."

"We should have," Dad agrees, nodding his head. "But you have to understand, honey, we weren't thinking about anything other than keeping you safe." He gestures helplessly around the room, like he's encompassing the entire situation in one big sweep. "Keeping all of this from happening."

"Newsflash, Dad," I interrupt him loudly, throwing my hands up in the air, exasperated. "It is happening. And the only thing we can do now is try and find a way to stop it." I am so damn tired of hearing about how protecting me is everybody's number one priority. Clearly it hasn't worked up until now. Time to move on. I whirl away from both Spike and Dad, taking a couple steps in the direction of the beds. "So what is it about Giles being my biological father? Why does that make him so valuable?" I ask, more than ready for some real answers. I narrow my eyes as I remember what it is exactly that Dad had said earlier, turning back around to look at him. "What did you mean when you said we still have a little time?"

Because if that hadn't been the deadest of giveaways that he definitely knows more about what's going on than he's been telling me, I'm not sure what would've been.

When he doesn't make a move to answer me right away I take another step toward him, widening my eyes expectantly. He sighs, reaching a hand up and rubbing it over his eyes. Resigned.

"Your mother had to die, Buffy," Dad begins deliberately, slowly, like he's getting ready to tell me an extremely long story. "In order for the prophecy to come true, she had to die by the hand of a vampire."

"Yeah," I say dismissively, unable to keep the irritation from tingeing my voice. "I know all that." At Dad's surprised look, I sigh. "Spike told me Wolfram and Hart put a vampire hit out on her. It was supposed to be him, but Dru…Drusilla got to Mom first."

Dad turns another wide-eyed, icy glare on Spike, stepping past me to get right in the vampire's personal space. "You told her all that?" he demands hotly, hands curling into fists at his sides.

Spike, unfazed, holds his ground, tilting his head back to maintain cool eye contact with the taller man. "Somebody had to, yeah?" he counters just as hotly, arching a brow. "High past time we started bein' honest 'round here, I think."

"I think, too," I agree, trying to think through the best way to ask the rest of my questions. Which questions are actually important and which ones are just wigging me the most. Whether or not any of them meet both criteria. "So Mom and Giles…" I trail off expectantly, watching as Dad gives a small nod and drops his eyes down to the floor. My stomach rolls a little, even though it's the answer I'd been expecting. "And you and Mom…what?" I prompt a minute later, shaking my head. "Just…decided to stay together even after you found out about them?"

If the question catches my dad off guard, he doesn't let on. Just takes a deep breath and nods his head again. "Your mom and I…" He trails off this time, closing his eyes. "Our marriage was complicated. But I loved her." He looks up at me again, his eyes finding mine. "And we both loved you very much, even though—"

"Even though I'm not really your daughter," I supply for him, my voice hard as steel. Surprisingly so, and more bitter than I want it to be. I don't even know why I say the words, and watching the hurt shadow Dad's eyes makes me wish I could stuff them back in my mouth. But I can't now, so I just wait in silence for whatever it is he's going to say next.

"Of course you're my daughter," Dad breathes, looking equal parts horrified and indignant. "Just as much as you are…more, even." He shakes his head sadly, looking like he wants to reach for me again, but he doesn't. "I raised you, Buffy. You're my daughter."

I nod sheepishly, dropping my gaze down to the floor and folding my arms protectively across my waist. I sigh, my voice growing very quiet. "But I'm his, too."

No one says anything for a long moment. I can feel Spike's eyes on me, focused intently in on my profile. I know Dad's probably looking at me, too. But none of us knows exactly what to say, or where to go from here.

Then, finally, "I'd hoped to throw Wolfram and Hart off his track completely by showing up in New York looking for you," Dad says, moving past the who's your daddy moment, just as much at a loss as the rest of us are on what else there is to say about it now. "But when you said you needed help to read the prophecy…"

Spike snorts, a mixy sound of dark humor and an almost grudging respect. "We led the sods straight to him."

I turn my head to the side to glance at the vampire, frowning deeply. "And again, that matters so much…why?" I turn my eyes to Dad's again. "Why is Giles important?"

"Because," Dad says slowly, drawing the word out, sounding like he thinks I should have figured it out by now. "He's the last piece of this prophetic puzzle, Buffy. Your father. The blood that runs in your veins, the blood that's mixed now with Spike's demon? It came from your mother, and from Giles." He pauses meaningfully, letting the words he's just spoken sink in as he stares at me, searching my eyes. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped very low. "Every other part of the prophecy's been fulfilled now. Every part except—"

"Giles," I breathe, suddenly understanding completely, my eyes going comically wide. Mom had to die. Her blood had to be spilled by the hand of a vampire in order for any of the prophecy to be true. Her blood, my blood. Giles's blood. I blink rapidly, my eyes glued to Dad's, wide and horrified. "Giles has to die?"

"In order for the prophecy to be complete, your father has to die." Dad nods, his expression pained. "By the hand of the same vampire that killed your mother, and that bit you."

But no. That part's wrong. I know immediately that that part's wrong.

"It doesn't have to be the same vampire," I say slowly, looking down at the floor. "That's what Holland explained to me. Why it didn't matter that they couldn't find Drusilla. It didn't have to be the same one that killed Mom that bit me." I whip my head around, my wide eyes searching for and finding Spike's immediately. "It just had to be one in the same family."

He nods, his features shadowed. "Angelus."

My stomach drops again. "They're going to have Angelus kill Giles," I murmur.

Dad chimes back in. "And they're going to have him do it two nights from now."

This has both Spike and I turning our eyes back toward Dad. "Two nights from now?" Spike asks, the same question I'd been thinking, his brow raised.

Dad's murmured answer. "The eighteenth anniversary of Joyce's death."

Oh.

We have a little time. That's what he'd said. That's what he'd meant. We have a little time, because we have two days until the anniversary of Mom's death…when apparently whatever killy ritual they're going to have Angelus perform on Giles will take effect.

The questions bubble up again instantly, about me. About Giles. About why they waited eighteen years after Mom was killed to try and find Giles if they needed to kill him. About why the anniversary of Mom's death matters so much. About why everything always has to be blood.

And the biggest one. The most urgent.

"And what happens after that?" I ask, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "Do I automatically turn into destructo-girl? Some super human killing machine? Bring on the apocalypse?" I gesture absently around the room, prompting Dad for an answer since he clearly knows more about the prophecy then he'd told us initially. "What?"

"We don't know," Dad says softly, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. "I don't…not for sure."

"Did Giles know about this?" I ask pointedly, hoping the answer is yes. Hoping he'd known, and that he'd knowingly, willingly risked his life and that I haven't dragged yet another innocent person into my mess.

Dad frowns at me, his brows drawing together across his forehead. "Of course he did."

I nod, instantly relaxing a little. Still angry. Still really, really angry. Maybe even more so now that I know both of them knew, both of them had information on my future that neither of them thought was worth sharing with me, even after the truth first started to come out.

"Why are they after you then?"

"I'm quite certain they have their reasons."

I shake my head, digging my nails deep into my arms through my t-shirt. "Why didn't either of you tell us any of this? Maybe before we hopped on a plane and came running straight back into Wolfram and Hart's backyard?" I ask heatedly, my eyes searching Dad's. "Sounds to me like you remember the prophecy text pretty damn well."

Dad steps toward me, reaching a hand out as though to calm me down. "What I know about Giles," he begins slowly, "and Mom…that's only one piece of the prophecy. The rest of it…the parts that don't match up between what Holland told you and what he originally told me, that's why we came here. To get answers to those questions." He pauses, turning away from me and planting his hands on his hips, looking away from me and down toward the carpet. His voice drops lower. "I didn't think…neither of us knew how telling you now would affect you—"

"My God," I shout, cutting him off suddenly and rolling my eyes up to the ceiling "You know, the two of you making decisions for me is exactly how we ended up in this position in the first place." I plant my own hands on my hips and level a hard look at my dad, chest aching from how hard my heart is pounding. "Don't you think it's about time you just stopped doing that?"

"You're right." Dad nods. "I'm sorry. And you can be as angry at us as you want to be with us." He gestures vaguely toward the window, toward where I imagine Wolfram and Hart's building might be. "But right now we need to be figuring out how we're going to stop Wolfram and Hart from killing Rupert and setting this prophecy in the proverbial stone."

"And I for one would still like to get our hands on that bleeding prophecy text," Spike says, his eyes dark and serious. "See what it is we're really up against."

"Okay," I say quietly, nibbling on my lower lip and looking down to the ground, thinking things through.

"Can't we go with the original plan?" Spike asks, gesturing in the same direction Dad had a moment ago. "Try and get to the archives tonight. You said we have a couple'a days 'til they have to off him, yeah?"

But Dad's already shaking his head no. "I won't be able to do the invisibility spell now," he says. "Not by myself, without Rupert's help."

But I already know that it won't matter.

"That's okay," I say slowly, my voice low and quiet as I glance around the room, thinking. I look up and meet Spike's eyes. "I don't think we're going to need the spell, anyway."

My vampire frowns at me, looking wary. "What are you talkin' about, luv?"

"I think I just had an idea," I tell him, my voice getting stronger the more I think about it. The more determined I become. The more I think about how it'll work. "Of how we can do this, get Giles out and get our hands on the original text."

Spike eyes me through his lashes, watching me as I cross the room in front of him and head for Dad's supplies still spread out on the floor, pursing his lips and hollowing his cheeks as he considers what I've said. "And how do you plan on doin' that?" he asks me, and I don't miss the long, bemused look he exchanges with my dad out of the corner of my eye.

I turn back toward my vampire, a small, knowing smile fighting it's way onto my face as I look him in the eyes and say simply "By giving them exactly what they want."


	33. Chapter 31

Spike's shoulders tense up as we ascend the concrete steps and pass by the massive _Wolfram and Hart: Attorneys at Law_ sign to our left, approaching the large windowed building with about as much excitement as a man being led to the gallows. He's not happy about being here, but I'm not exactly thrilled to bits either. He thinks my plan is stupid.

He's not wrong.

Not that it matters, since obviously, we're here.

Not that both he and Dad hadn't done their very best to talk me out of coming here tonight, because they totally had. And in return, I'd done by very best to explain to them that this is no longer a situation we can fight from the outside. With our whole cloaking spell up in smoke, and the fact that clearly Wolfram and Hart hadn't felt like they needed any of us to continue on with their plans to kill Giles and cement the rest of the prophecy, there hadn't been any other viable options. Not in my mind, anyway.

No. The time for watching and waiting is over.

I glance toward the vampire as we get nearer to the large glass doors leading into the main lobby, his eyes narrowed as they dart to mine and he asks, "You sure this'll work?"

"Nope," I answer simply.

And it's true. I honestly have no idea if this is going to work or not. It's really not that solid of a plan, and it leaves more to chance than I'd like it to. But it's the only plan we've got, and if I'm being completely and totally honest about it there isn't a whole lot left for us to lose. Or me to lose, specifically. Wolfram and Hart has already killed my mom. They're going to kill Giles. They'll eventually try to kill Dad too, I'm sure, if they have to. If we try to keep running. They've already proven time and time again they'll do whatever they have to in order to get what they want.

And right now, what they want is me.

So no, I'm not sure this plan will work. But what other real choice do we have?

"Oh, brilliant," the vampire grumbles now, rolling his eyes up to the rapidly darkening sky.

I turn my own eyes back to the looming building's entrance and murmur, "Thanks, I thought so."

"Wouldn't be quite so flip if I were you, pet." Spike comes to a sudden stop about ten feet away from the main door and grabs me gently by the elbow, causing me to stop and turn back toward him. "If this so called plan of yours falls apart in there—"

"Then it'll be over," I say, the words passing my lips on a quiet sigh. "If my plan falls apart, which it won't…I don't think." Spike looks like he's about to argue, so I continue quickly. "But if it does, then…it does. It does, and all the running and the hiding and looking over our shoulders will be over."

I watch his eyes flash, jaw clenching. The same look on his face now that had been there all through last night and throughout today.

"So that's it then?" he asks me angrily, taking the opportunity I've finally given him to be angry about my decision. "If this doesn't work you're really just gonna let these wankers have you?"

I don't why he's asked. He already knows the answer.

I meet my vampire's eyes very steadily, meaningfully, and say, "No."

It takes him just a second to understand what I mean by that, but once he does, I know it. His grip tightens on my elbow and he pulls me just a little closer to him, his eyes stormy as they search mine.

"I'm not doin' that," he tells me seriously, voice very low. "Already told you that."

"And I already told _you_ that I'm not going to just sit back and let them use me, if it comes to that. That's why we're here, Spike." I reach up and pull his hand away from my elbow, bringing it back down between us. "I'm not playing by their rules anymore."

But the words aren't registering to him. His expression is hard, eyes flashing in the artificial lights pouring out toward us from the building's hundred windows. "I won't hurt you," Spike tells me slowly, saying each and every word deliberately. He shakes his head. "Not again."

I'm guessing right now would be a pretty bad time to remind him that I'm not asking him to _hurt_ me, exactly.

So I don't.

Instead, I tilt my head to the side and offer him a little half smile, brushing my thumb reassuringly over the back of his marble-like hand. "Look on the bright side," I muse, squeezing his hand once before finally dropping it. "If this all goes according to plan you won't have to." I pause, then shrug, saying casually, "And if it doesn't, who knows, they might even do it for you."

My vampire doesn't think I'm funny. "Bloody hell, Buffy, if you get yourself killed…"

"I won't," I say confidently, somehow feeling absolutely certain in this moment that if I go into Wolfram and Hart tonight and everything _does_ go according to plan, it isn't going to be that winds up dead.

Spike just smirks at me in spite of himself. "Now you really do sound like a Slayer."

And it's a little funny to me, because right now I actually kind of feel like one.

You'd think it was the middle of the average work day rather than 7:00 o'clock at night when we finally step inside the brightly lit lobby.

It's nothing like what I'd expected.

This branch is different than the New York version we'd been held captive in before. Much larger, more open. And with actual lawer-y looking employees milling around instead of just those creeptastic mooks in all black. If I didn't known better, I might think this place actually is just your average, humdrum law firm.

Spike and I make our way directly to the receptionist's desk, a pretty, friendly looking blonde woman who smiles just a little too brightly when her eyes land on the bleached blonde vampire beside me. "Can I help you?" she asks, her voice not at all high pitched like I'd been anticipating, her bright eyes still leveled at Spike.

"You can help _me_ ," I tell her purposefully, raising my eyebrows and smiling saccharinely at her when she glances toward me. "Yeah, hi. I'm here to see Holland Manners."

This has the blonde woman frowning deeply. She turns away from us and toward her computer screen, candy cotton pink nails clacking away at the keyboard for a minute before she shakes her head and eyes me again. "He doesn't have anything on his schedule," she tells me matter-of-factly, tilting her head to the side. "Do you have an appointment?"

The absurdity of the question is enough to make me laugh. Do I have an appointment?

"I don't need one," I say just as matter-of-factly, the bright smile slipping from my lips. "My name is Buffy Summers. He'll be expecting me."

* * *

"I'm not sure 'expecting' is exactly the right word," Holland tells me coolly, his eyes bright as he stares up at me from behind his desk. Looking smug and calculating and very much like he needs to be punched square in the face.

Which is exactly what I'm thinking as I glare at him, tightening my hands into fists at my sides and asking, "Where's Giles?"

Holland chuckles at me, leaning back in his chair and pressing the tips of his fingers together. "You don't waste any time at all, do you?" he asks, looking at me like I'm something endlessly fascinating. "Right to the point."

"I believe the lady asked you a question, mate," Spike growls, the sound low and menacing, enough to send a chill down even my spine.

Holland, never taking his eyes off my face and sounding unconcerned, says, "And I'll get to that in a minute."

I watch him as he leans forward and presses his hands down into his desk, uses them to leverage himself up to his feet. "Can I get you two anything?" he asks conversationally, moving around the edge of his desk and slowly toward us. "Coffee? Blood?" A pause. "No?"

"This isn't a social call, Holland," I tell him coldly, not in the mood for niceties. Getting all kinds of itchy to get to the point. The longer we stand here, the angrier I feel. And the angrier I feel, the more confident I become. Confident that, one way or another, this calculating man is going to pay for everything he's done to me.

To my family.

"Now, now Miss Summers," he chides me smoothly, nodding toward the two large armed men that are hovering behind us to close the office doors. "We can still be cordial, can't we? You know what they say about all work and no play."

"I think I'm all played out, thanks," I tell him, feeling the heat of barely contained fury flooding through my cheeks. I narrow my eyes on the older man, hating the way he's looking at me. All arrogant and knowing, like us showing up here had been exactly what he'd been planning all along.

Which maybe it had been, I don't know.

Holland ignores me, turning his watery eyes over toward the vampire on my left for the first time since we'd been ushered up to his office. "How's your shoulder, Spike? All healed up?"

My hands twitch and tighten further.

"Better'n ever," Spike replies, the words completely innocuous and yet still somehow, the threat in his voice is more than obvious.

Unruffled, the older man just nods thoughtfully. "I'm sorry we had to shoot you, but it had to be done. I'm sure you under—"

"We didn't come here to make small talk," I interrupt him, not interested in his wiggy version of not-so-friendly banter. Holland glances back toward me and I roll my shoulders back, squaring them off.

I watch as he raises his eyebrows and inclines his head toward me expectantly, asking without asking just what it is I _have_ come here for.

Channeling every negotiation scene from every bad black and white gangster movie Dad's ever made me watch, I tilt my chin back and stare down at Holland from over the tip of my nose. "I have a proposition for you."

This much, at least, actually seems to catch the lawyer off guard. Eyes widening, eyebrows raising high.

"Oh, now this is getting interesting." Holland grins at me, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back to sit on the edge of his broad black desk. Settling in as though he's about to be told a story, he says, "Go ahead, I'd love to hear this. How hard of a bargain are you going to drive?"

The fact that he's clearly not taking me seriously, and that he's clearly not feeling overly threatened, bugs. Bugs, but is exactly what I'd been expecting, which means it can only work to my advantage.

"Not a _bargain_ ," I emphasize, crossing my arms. "A proposition."

Holland's smile falls just a tiny bit, like this isn't exactly how he'd been anticipating this meeting to go. Eyebrows still raised, he asks, "So you aren't here to beg me to spare your father's life?"

Even though I know logically he isn't talk about Dad, about Hank, something about this sentence still wigs me out, muscles immediately tensing. Granted, yes, I do understand that he's really talking about Giles. Still, for half a second it throws me off my game.

Just for half a second, though.

"What would be the point?" I ask him steadily, my voice very calm and even.

Again, this answer seems to surprise him. He frowns at me, looking a little confused, which gives me a sharp pang of intense satisfaction. He says, "I hadn't pegged you for such a defeatist attitude."

"There's a difference between being defeatist and practical."

Holland smirks at me like I've just said something truly hilarious. Cocking his head to the side and studying me through slightly narrowed eyes, he says, "And you think showing up here unannounced is practical."

Wow. He must really think I'm an idiot.

Good.

I cast a quick glance to the side and catch Spike's eyes before facing forward again. "From what I understand, this whole thing with me is pretty much all set in stone. Or it will be soon, anyway. So, I'll make you a deal." I unfold my arms and gesture absently, a little like I'm presenting myself to him, and say, "I'm here. You've got me. No more running, or hiding…or trying to foil your evil scheme, or whatever."

Predictably, Holland looks wary. Arms still crossed he tilts his chin back, a cold smile still on his lips. "And in exchange, you want…?"

"To read the prophecy," I answer immediately, without a second's hesitation. "The _real_ prophecy, not the messed up version you gave me."

"That's it?" he asks dryly, eyes still narrowed in quiet skepticism. "That's all you want. You're just…giving yourself over to us, and all you're asking in return is to have access to our archives?"

I shake my head and add, "And I want you to leave Dad alone. For good."

"Hank?" Holland specifies pointedly, arching a brow.

I swallow and nod. "Yes, Hank."

A beat passes as we stare each other down.

Then, suddenly nonchalant and dismissive as he pushes himself to his feet again, "Done."

"Just like that?" I ask, and it's my turn to look skeptical, even if I'm halfway pretending. I share another furtive glance with Spike before I frown back at Holland, narrowing my eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be all evil and plotty and…counter offer or something?"

"No need," he says simply, smiling widely at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. "You showing up here on your own has just made things extremely easy for me, Miss Summers. The least I can do is provide you with the information you're looking for." He reaches around the edge of his desk and presses down on a button that lights up, flashing red. "It'll hardly make a difference now, anyway."

A moment later there's a knock on the office doors and Holland waves a hand toward the armed men, indicating for them to open it. They do, and in steps the irritatingly familiar face and baby blue eyes of Lindsey, the lawyer we'd dealt with a little too closely back in New York.

"Buffy, Spike." He says our names the way you might greet an old friend, nodding at us in turn as he does and crossing his hands down in front of his lap. He's eye smiling at us. "Fancy meeting you two here."

God, is that just like a Wolfram and Hart thing? That all their employees look like they could use a good punch to the face?

I ignore Lindsey's smug greeting and turn back to face Holland. "I want to see Giles."

"I'd expected nothing less," Holland says, gesturing back to his employee. "Lindsey here will take you wherever you'd like to go."

"Innit that nice," Spike murmurs, eyeing the blue-eyed lawyer with thinly veiled contempt. No doubt remembering the last time the two of them were in a room together.

"Well then, what'll it be first?" Holland asks conversationally, leaning forward slightly and clapping his hands once, reminding me a little bit of an overzealous tour guide. "The prophecy or dear old dad?"

"My _dad_ isn't here," I hiss at him immediately, emphasizing the word.

And it's true. My dad isn't here. With any luck, he's already somewhere safe prepping for Plan B just in case Plan A turns out to be a giant, messy failure.

It never hurts to have a failsafe.

Holland tilts his head to the side, still watching me intently. Looking more than pleased with the position he's found himself in. Or the position he thinks _we've_ found ourselves in. Either way. "Is now really the time to be playing around with semantics?"

"Is he still alive?" I ask, my voice hard.

The gleam in Holland's eye turns colder, the creepy smile melting just a little. "Yes."

"Until tomorrow night," I add knowingly, enjoying the way me somehow knowing this wipes the rest of the smile off his face.

"Hank really did tell you everything, didn't he." He says it like it bothers him a little bit, which makes me feel just a little better. He nods once and says, "Yes. Until tomorrow night."

I nod once, ducking my gaze down to the floor like I'm considering my options. Like I don't already know exactly where I want to go now. After a minute I nod and look back up. "Then I want to see the prophecy first."

"Lindsey," Holland calls to the younger man, never taking just slightly cautious eyes off me. "You heard Miss Summers. Please escort her down to the archive department."

"Don't need a bleeding babysitter," Spike mutters derisively, turning flashing azure eyes toward the squirrely younger lawyer. Looking like he'd like to flash his fangs at him, too.

"Would you rather an armed guard?" Holland asks the vampire sarcastically, casting a demonstrative glance toward the two large men still standing on either side of the door.

I frown at him, brow furrowed. "I already told you, we're not going anywhere. No more running."

"Even so, I'm hardly about to allow you free reign through the building." He waves us toward the open doorway, nodding toward Lindsey who turns his back and proceeds to march out of the office and back out into the hallway. "You'll have someone with you at all times."

I look to Spike then shrug, not seeing any other real option other than to follow. My vampire throws one last narrow eyed glare toward the older man beside the desk, then turns and stalks past the guards and out through the door. I move to follow directly behind, but the sound of Holland calling my name stops me in my tracks.

He waits until I stop and turn to glance at him over my shoulder before smiling too sweetly at me and saying, "While I do believe that Spike could be useful to us, I won't hesitate to give the order to dust him if you try anything." Still smiling, he raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes. "Do I make myself clear?"

Well, _yeah_. I mean, that threat hadn't exactly been subtle.

But again, it's what I'd been expecting.

So I just match his sickly sweet smile with one of my own and tell him, "Crystal."

* * *

The archive department isn't a whole lot more than a cold, dark room in the bottom level of Wolfram and Hart.

That's what Dad had told us before we'd left, and I'm beginning to think he's way right. At least, I think we're in the bottom level now. This place is a certifiable rat's maze, though, so there's every chance there could still be another level down below us even now. Dad had done what he'd could to explain the layout, as best as he could remember anyway, before Spike and I had left the hotel. But we'd been in a hurry. Or, I'd been in a hurry anyway.

So far, everything's pretty much exactly as he'd said it would be.

I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse.

I watch Lindsey's back warily as he leads Spike and I down a long corridor, turns the corner, continues on down a shorter hallway, around another corner, and then abruptly stops in front of a door.

Just a regular old wooden door. Nothing obviously special about it from the outside. Nothing overly scary.

The door isn't even locked.

Or maybe they'd just already had someone down here to unlock it, I don't know. I'm too busy glancing around looking for the various booby traps Dad had warned us about to really care, either.

But, I guess not so surprisingly, we follow Lindsey over the threshold and into the dusty, darkened room without any issues. I blink several times, adjusting to the dim light. Going form the bright fluorescents in the hallway to the dim, yellowed Edison bulbs dotting the ceiling in here is a little jarring, and I find myself reaching on impulse toward Spike.

He slides his hand up and wraps it around my elbow, a gentle pressure guiding me further into the dark room.

We're barely over the threshold when the wooden door suddenly slams shut behind us. I jump, let out a little yelp and automatically whirl back around to face the previously innocent looking door.

"Oh, yeah," Lindsey says casually, drawing my attention back to him. "It does that sometimes."

Spike steps a little closer to the younger man though he never lets go of my arm, a trace of predatory malice in his voice when he asks lowly, "Does _what_?"

"It's just a precaution," Lindsey replies, holding his palms out in front of him in a stopping potion. The small smirk on the edges of his lips has a knot in my stomach contracting nervously.

In a flash, I turn back to the door and reach for the knob, attempting to turn it and pull the door back open. It barely moves. I rattle it a couple times before finally letting it go. Chest tightening painfully, I glance up toward Spike, eyes wide to see him better in the dimness. "We're locked in," I whisper to him, watching as his eyes immediately start to scan the area around us, looking for some hidden danger in the shadows past the small circles of light cast by the exposed bulbs.

 _Not part of the plan._

"Whoa there, no need to panic," Lindsey assures us a little too smoothly, and both Spike and I turn back toward him at the same time. "Like I said, just a precaution."

Spike's jaw clenches, and he raises a scarred brow at the lawyer. "Any other _precautions_ we oughtta be worried about?"

Lindsey's smirk doesn't go anywhere as he drops his hands back down to his sides, tucking one of them up and into his jacket pocket. "We disabled the rest of them. Though all it'll take is a touch of a button to enable them again, so…food for thought."

The threat in the words is unmistakable and I can practically feel the vampire beside me vibrating with the effort of keeping his temper in check. But right now I trust this slippery little man about as far as I'm pretty sure I could throw him, so I'm only taking his words at the facest of values. There's every possibility it could be a totally empty threat, but I don't think either of us are in the mood to take that chance.

"Right then," Spike finally mutters, shifting his hand from my elbow and down instead to my waist, tugging me just a little more firmly into his side. "Let's just get on with it, shall we?"

Lindsey nods cordially, that sly little smile still on his mouth, then turns back around and starts moving toward the massive shelves in front of us. Once we get a little further into the room, it's easier to see why exactly they call this the "archive department". There have to be at least twenty of the stacked floor-to-ceiling shelving units lined side by side along the far wall, and each is a good ten to fifteen feet long. The room is huge.

We follow Lindsey toward them, approaching what appears to be a small desk at the center of the open space, about five feet or so in front of where the shelving units are. There are various books and papers scattered across the aged wood, a mug that looks about halfway full with some forgotten, dark liquid in it, and that's it. The standard wooden desk chair on the other side is empty. It looks like someone might have been sitting here working just minutes ago maybe. Or it would, if it weren't for the thick layer of dust that coats everything, except for the mug, on top of the desk. Confused, and starting to get an wiggier vibe than before, I search back in my head to the details Dad had given us about the basement. This particular part of the room isn't something he'd mentioned, I don't think. Frowning, I cast my eyes around the cavernous space once more, more than half expecting to see someone moving along the shelves in front of us.

There's no one in sight.

I frown more deeply; leaning into Spike's side and looking back down to the desk. Wondering why it is we've stopped here and haven't just kept moving toward the stacks if it's obvious there's nobody around.

And that's when I notice it.

Small and round, sitting on top of a stack of worn down books, is a bell. A little service bell, like the kind I'd seen when Dad had taken me to the little boutique Bed and Breakfast in Santa Barbara for me eighth birthday. Just beside it, a small card in a slanted, sloping script reads "Please Ring for Assistance".

As if things down here couldn't have gotten any more bizarre. I glance toward Spike and know he's seen what I have, because we have twin raised eyebrow expressions on our faces now.

Lindsey seems completely undisturbed by the whole thing, simply leaning forward and hitting the little bell once with the palm of his hand.

We don't have to wait long.

Hardly a second's past when the figure suddenly materializes in front of us. Literally, materializes…out of thin air. At first there's just a haze of what looks a little bit like smoke, and then there's a person. A man. Seated in what had been the empty desk chair just moments ago, he stares through narrowed, spectacled eyes at us, looking massively annoyed. I let my eyes trail over him quickly, taking in the striped button down shirt that's plainly tucked into his pants, a thick, out dated looking tie and suspenders instead of a belt. He has thick curly hair, dark, bushy eyebrows and a thin face that might look more severe if it weren't for the very round glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Leaning back in the desk chair, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, the man's words address Lindsey even though he's staring straight at me. "What can I help you find, Mr. McDonald?"

He has a surprisingly thick accent, kind of old timey in a way, like from those old black white movies with super dramatic sounding names. It's higher pitched then I would have guessed from looking at his squatty stature, and it also doesn't sound like he's really in the mood to help anyone.

"Not me, Reggie," Lindsey responds, crossing his own arms and inclining his head back toward us. "Them."

The man…ghost…person, Reggie, narrows his eyes a little more, his expression sour. "They don't work here."

"No, they sure don't," the lawyer agrees readily, a little lilt of Texas twang coloring the words as he reaches into his jacket pocket and extracts a slip of paper with something scribbled across it, tossing it down carelessly onto the desk. "But you're supposed to help them find this. Holland cleared them."

Reggie keeps his guarded gaze locked on me as he shifts forward, plucking the note up off the desk and bringing it up in front of his face. His eyes drop down to it, scan it over quickly. Then he balks, shifts in the chair and sits up straighter. Re-reads the words again. Once. Twice.

Then his eyes shoot back up to mine.

"What interest is this to you?" he asks me urgently, and his tone has softened quite a bit now. Quiet, still thickly accented, but something that sounds more careful and less annoyed.

"Um, the prophecy?" I ask hesitantly, shifting my eyes back to Spike's, who's been steadily tightening his grip on my waist since we've been standing here. The vampire isn't looking at me, though. His eyes are glued to the man behind the desk.

Reggie just nods once in response.

I look at him a moment longer before I swallow, my mouth weirdly dry and tell him, "It's about me."

I watch as the man's face pales even further, eyes visibly widening from behind his glasses as he slumps back into the wooden chair again. His expression isn't cautious anymore, and he's no longer looking at me like my presence annoys him. He's sitting there, staring at me like he's afraid of me. Afraid of me, or afraid _for_ me, I can't quite tell which.

Everything in me goes ice cold.

"Okay, so, Reggie if you'd just let these two inside," Lindsey says quickly, like he doesn't have time to be standing down here dealing with this right now. He waves a hand absently toward the space in front of us, further on toward the stacks. "Help them find what they're looking for." He turns back to me, and his eyes are hard. "Holland's agreed to give you twenty minutes."

Reggie, still looking a little shaken, simply nods and reluctantly gets to his feet. Then, looking like it almost pains him to do it, he sighs loudly and begins to mutter something low, under his breath. A half second later and the room begins to shudder and groan around us. Gripping Spike's forearms for support, I watch, eyes wide, as the image in front of me starts to shift. A gate appears directly beside the wooden desk, out of nowhere. And I can see now. That the image of the shelves we'd been staring at before isn't real. The actual stacks are hidden much further back, a mirror image of the ones we've been presented with up to this point.

Nope. Dad definitely hadn't mentioned this.

Cautiously, a little enthralled with this…like a different version of the cloaking spell at Richard's town home, or what Giles and Dad had performed on the hotel in New York, I reach a hand out as though I might be able to physically feel the magic itself.

But Spike reaches out and snatches my hand away before I can. "Wouldn't do that if I were you, luv." He turns his face toward Lindsey. "Guessin' that bit's not just for looks."

The lawyer nods and says, "That's why we have a gate."

Another type of booby trap. And the spell looks so real; if we'd tried to sneak in here on our own…I don't think either of us would have noticed. Not before it was too late, anyway. This must be a new feature. Dad would have mentioned it before if he'd known.

"You two have twenty minutes," Lindsey reminds us again, though the significance of the time I'm still not exactly sure. "I wouldn't go wasting it."

Reggie doesn't speak to us as we step through the gate, leaving Lindsey standing comfortably on the other side. I'm a little surprised when he doesn't follow us, but decide not to press my luck by asking him why he isn't.

Reggie still doesn't seem to be overly talkative. He doesn't say a word as he silently turns around, gesturing just once for Spike and me to follow him. We glance once more at one another and do, a little cautiously, rounding the first corner of massive shelving units and straight down between two of them. There on the back wall I spot what looks to me just like your average metal office filing cabinet. Again, just like the door leading into this room, there's nothing particularly special about it. Nothing ominous or frightening.

Until Reggie leans forward to open it up, and I can see that it's impossibly deep. When he goes to tug it all the way open the thing is a good ten feet long. We watch him as he digs through the files there, hundreds and hundreds of them at least, until finally seeming to find whatever it is he's looking for. He pulls out a thin manila folder, turns, hands it to me.

I stare down at it for a moment, feeling nauseated.

Typed out across the top in big, block letters is my name. My real name.

 _Manners, Elizabeth._

Then, just beside that, hastily scribbled in with pencil and in parentheses: _Summers, Buffy._

I frown down at it. "Because…that isn't creepy."

"This whole buggering place is creepy," Spike quips quietly, glancing around us at the floor-to-ceiling shelves uneasily.

Beside me, Reggie clears his throat and I shift my attention up from the file in my hands and into his eyes. He eyes me cautiously again, and I swear he's about to say… _something_. What exactly, I don't know. He opens his mouth to speak once, then closes it quickly. Opens it again. Then, running his gaze up and down me twice, he finally just says, "I'll be right back with the book."

"What boo—" I begin to ask, but he's already gone. Again, like he's vanished into thin air. I frown into the spot he's just vanished from, then glance over my shoulder at Spike. "Speaking of creepy," I begin, lowering my voice a little, frowning. "What is that guy anyway? Ghost? Wizard? Ghost _of_ a wizard?"

My vampire just shrugs, still glancing around nervously, and mutters, "Honestly? No bloody clue."

I guess it doesn't really matter anyway.

I sigh and glance down, taking in the small file in my hands. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed. I guess I'd kind of figured it'd be full and thick and have all kinds of creepy _how the hell do they know that_ type information inside of it about me. Maybe some notes on my childhood, or something on my mom. Or Richard, or Giles. I'd figured there might even be some stuff in it on Spike and his vampire family, considering how relevant that's all turning out to be.

But judging by the weight and thickness of the file in my hands, there's probably not much of anything in it at all.

I don't realize my hands are shaking as I hold onto it until Spike points it out.

"Go on, luv," he encourages me gently after another minute's gone by, nudging my shoulder with his. "'S why we came here, after all."

I turn and meet his eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose and mentally preparing for whatever it is we're about to find. He nods encouragingly. I nod back. Then, exhaling slowly through my mouth, I turn my eyes back down and shift the file around in my hands, open it up.

There are only two things inside.

A single piece of what looks like regular old printer paper, still crisp in spite of it's age, and mostly clean apart from the text typed out across the first half of it. On top of it, there's a photo. The photo is an older one, slightly crinkled along the edges like it's been handled more than a few times before now. It's not a photo I remember ever seeing before, and not one that I remember taking. It's from before Dad and I moved away. From before Mom was killed. Just…from _before_.

It's a photo of me and Mom and Giles.

At least, I'm pretty sure it's Giles. It definitely isn't Dad, and the young man is nowhere near old enough to have been Richard. I'm little in it. Four, maybe five years old at most. Dressed in some pink frilly dress with a matching bow in my hair that I feel like I remember but probably don't. My tiny fingernails are painted red, just like Mom's. None of us are looking directly into the camera, which makes me wonder who might have taken it. Mom is standing up inside a brightly lit kitchen, one I recognize. The small kitchen from Richard's apartment. She's holding me in her arms, resting me on her hip, and the two of us are turned toward Giles. Mom's smiling brightly, it looks like I'm laughing, and Giles has one of my little hands held tightly in his.

My stomach rolls, eyes stinging and beginning to burn as I stare down at the photograph.

This is a picture, maybe the _only_ picture, of my parents and me. My two biological parents.

And Wolfram and Hart has had it this whole time.

"Oh God," I whisper, picking it up out of the folder and lifting it up closer to my blurring eyes. I don't know why, what it is exactly. But there's something so gut wrenching, so absolute _sickening_ about these people having access to such a private piece of my life. A piece of my life I hadn't even known _existed_ until a few days ago.

Not asking what the matter is, or maybe just not needing to, Spike reaches around me and plucks the piece of typed up paper out of the folder. I don't have to ask him what it is. I can tell by the look on his face, the intense, narrow set of his eyes as he scans through it quickly. Then again, a tiny bit slower.

"Well?" I finally prompt, sniffling a little as his azure eyes turn up to mine.

"There's nothin' here that says anythin' about you bringin' on the apocalypse, pet." He scans over the text one more time, then shakes his head, stormy eyes finding mine once more. They flash and darken in anger as he says, "Think that was just added in to shake things up a bit."

"To drive us to Richard," I say, nodding slowly. "Or...to Giles I guess." I reach out and hand Spike the photograph and he takes it gingerly in his long fingers, passing the paper to me in return.

I scan over the words on the page, relieved that I, for once, can read what it says about me.

And it's all here. Just like Dad said it would be. Every detail down to the letter about who I am—what I am—and what I'm supposed to be. When it's supposed to happen. Who all's supposed to die, and how. First Mom, who'd had to die in order for the prophecy to begin. How I'm set to inherit her slayer powers when I turn the age she was when she died. Twenty-five. And then the second half of the prophecy…the part about being bitten by the same vampire that killed Mom. How that same vampire has to kill my father, too, on the anniversary of Mom's death in order for me to become the pivotal, unstoppable weapon that Holland had originally told me I was meant to become. It's all here, down to the very last, disturbing detail. Granted I guess this could all be made up for my benefit…but what purpose would there be to that now? Now, when they have everything that they want?

No. It's in my gut now. In my gut and my chest and my throat, rising like bile and a freaky sense of just knowing that this…this is the truth.

I jump a little when the echoing sound the door to the department slamming shut reaches my ears, whipping my head back up and immediately over toward Spike's. He looks as confused as I am.

Has Lindsey just left? Or has someone else just entered?

"He's gone," Reggie says then, reading my mind and suddenly reappearing as quickly as he'd vanished before. Only this time with a massive tome in his hands. "Can't stand that little prick." He shifts the tome around in his hands, muttering something under his breath that's not quite distinguishable, though I hear Lindsey's name once or twice. He pauses and flips it open to what I'm assuming is the correct page, then extends it out to us.

I let Spike take it, plucking my picture from his grip because I'm not sure my shaking hands are strong enough to support the weight of the book. Not like I could even read the text, anyway. What had Giles said…that Tiberius was written in ancient Sanskrit? Yeah. That's not exactly in my wheelhouse.

It isn't in Spike's, either. Though it doesn't keep him from scanning the text in front of him anyway.

Finally, the vampire looks up, narrowed eyes landing on the ghostly bookkeeper. "Don't s'pose you can translate this?"

"Who do you think translated it the first time?" Reggie counters, shifting his gaze down to the piece of paper still clutched in my hand.

Oh. Right.

"And this is it then?" Spike asks, taking the translated paper from my hands and waving it in front of Reggie's face. "The whole thing?"

The other man nods, crossing his arms casually. "Scouts' honor."` Off both of our extremely skeptical expressions, he frowns at us and asks, "What? You don't believe me?"

He sounds so sincerely disappointed that I'm immediately moving to reassure him otherwise, relieved that he seems to feel more confident in talking to us now and not wanting him to clam up again.

"We've just seen a lot of different versions of this, that's all," I explain, feeling bizarrely sorry for not immediately taking this strange little man at his word.

Spike kind of looks like he feels the same way, glancing at me and saying almost sheepishly, "And…you do work for Wolfram and Hart, mate."

"Not by choice," Reggie responds coldly, his eyes focused down on the ground at our feet. The way he says it has my stomach rolling, my blood running cold. Feeling seven different kinds of uneasy as I think about the implications of those words and the existence this man appears to be leading down here by himself.

The thought occurs to me then as I take in his appearance, the clothing straight out of a Humphrey Bogart film, the old timey accent, the obvious amount of time on his hands. God. _How long has he been down here?_

I feel compelled to apologize. For what exactly, I don't quite know. But Reggie's looking up suddenly, his eyes hard, and speaking before I get a chance. "Look, you two can believe whatever you'd like, alright? But I know what I read. And come tomorrow night, if that bastard runnin' things upstairs gets what he wants, this is exactly what's gonna happen." He points down into the original prophecy text for emphasis when he says it. Then he leans a little closer to me, lowering his voice to a conspiratorially low whisper. "And if you don't find a way to stop it, you're going to end up just like all the rest of us. Another shiny new toy added to Wolfram and Hart's ever expandin' collection."

The entire room seems to sink in all around me at that, pressing in on my chest and making it harder to breathe. The horrifying implications seem to take an extra long time to really get through my head.

"What are you talking about?" my vampire asks him, frowning as he exchanges a tense look with me.

Reggie, for his part, looks like he's talking to a pair of complete morons. Annoyed, he narrows his eyes at us. "You _really_ think Wolfram and Hart would orchestrate something as powerful as this, go to such lengths to acquire something as powerful as _you_ , and not have some measures put in place to control it?"

Oh.

My stomach tightens once, rolls over, and I swear I'm going to be sick. All over the prophecy text still open in Spike's hands.

I mean, sure, I'd know Wolfram and Hart wanted me for a reason. And now reading this, I understand that I'm supposed to be this super weapon or whatever. I'd always realized somewhere in the back of my mind, and Holland had even told me as much, that he'd wanted me to be their weapon. To work for them. To be on their "side" or however he'd put it the first time. But I'd never thought…I'd never realized what exactly that might mean. That they might have the power to control me or keep me captive somehow. That they might be able to _force_ me to do things for them.

Or maybe I just hadn't _wanted_ to realize it.

"You think they're gonna try and control me?" I ask unsteadily, fighting back the sudden shaking in my fingertips.

In front of us, Reggie looks insulted. "Think?" he scoffs at me, casting a quick glance over my shoulder and back around the corner we've just come from before meeting my eyes again. Leaning toward me slightly and lowering his voice, he continues, "Sweetheart, I _know_. Seen it happen too many times to count. What, you think I just stay down here in this hellhole for kicks? That I wouldn't leave if I had the choice? No, no." Reggie shakes his head, unfolds one of his arms to gesture back toward the front of the archive room in demonstration. "These guys...they're collectors."

My stomach rolls again.

Obviously, he doesn't mean of stamps.

I swallow the lump in the back of my throat, glancing down at the photograph I still have gripped tight in my hands. Asking the question even though I think I already know the answer. "Collectors of…what, exactly?"

"Of rare and useful persons," he answers smoothly, his eyes growing more serious the longer he stares at me. "Anyone or any _thing_ they think might prove valuable to them. Take myself for example. I have a particular set of skills, can read and write just about any ancient text, dead language or cipher you wanna throw at me. Word got around to the Senior Partners that I'd be able to help 'em out with things down here and bam, here we are. That was sixty-nine years ago."

Spike frowns at the smaller man, handing the paper with the translation on it back over to me. Squinting his eyes skeptically, he asks, "You're sayin' they bound you here?"

"That I am." Reggie looks at me, hooks a thumb in my vampire's direction and mutters, "Not as dumb as he looks, is he?"

Annoyed, Spike snaps the heavy book in his hands shut, drawing both Reggie's and my eyes back to him. "So this 'control' you mentioned, it's a binding spell then." He raises his eyebrows. "That's all?"

"That's all," the shorter man parrots mockingly, derisively, unfolding both arms now to plant his hands firmly on his hips. Addressing the vampire the careless air of someone who has no fear and nothing left to lose. "Listen kid, if this was some simple little _abracadabra_ bullshit, I would'a found a way out decades ago. This is powerful stuff. Blood magic."

"Did you say _blood_ magic? As in…magic involving blood. Like," I glance toward Spike to find him already looking at me, the same stricken expression on his face, " _my_ blood?"

"Oh, bloody hell," he breathes, eyes stormy and wild as they look into mine.

My hand tightens over the file again, thinking about how adamant they'd been about needing a sample of Spike's blood. How there's every possibility they've already taken mine, too. How for all we know they've already done this binding, controlling…whatever spell and everything we've been planning might have been for nothing. "So, if Holland already has samples of our blood…"

"Then normally I'd say your goose is cooked," Reggie supplies, bringing a finger up to point at me. "Except in your case, sugar. They don't wanna bind you, they wanna bind _it_. The weapon that you're all set to become. Can't do the spell until you've been changed over, I figure."

I relax just a little. If that's true, then we still have time.

Not a lot, but enough.

"How do we stop it?" I ask him in a rush, feeling some kind of urgency, like I can suddenly feel the hand out ticking clock counting down in my head. "Is there a way to keep them from doing this...blood binding thingy? O-or to break it once it's been done?"

And for the first time since setting foot inside the archive department, Reggie looks at me kindly, the lines around his eyes softening and shaking his head once. Then he says, "If I knew the answer to that, doll face, I wouldn't be here."

So our only hope is our original plan, then. Finding some way to make it work without giving ourselves away. It'll take more finessing than I even know if I'm capable of, and we're all going to have to be on pretty much the exact same page. There won't be any room, none, for mistakes. Not from any of us.

I close my eyes for just a moment, sending a silent prayer up that Dad's having better luck than we are. That he's already found what he'd been looking for and is back somewhere safe, biding his time like we'd planned.

My eyes snap wide open again when I hear the creaking of the room's main door open, promptly slamming back shut again the way it had before.

"Their twenty minutes are up, Reg," Lindsey suddenly hollers from around the corner, somewhere hidden from view of where we're standing now. Presumably back behind the creepy fence and gate. "Bring 'em back up to the front."

"Sure thing Mr. McDonald," Reggie shouts back, that false note of contrition in his voice that had been present initially, then he turns to us, lowering his voice to a whisper. "You have two minutes while I go put this away."

He looks steadily back and forth between Spike's face and mine for a moment before he's seemingly satisfied that we've understood his point. Then he snatches the heavy book up out of my vampire's hands, slams it shut, and storms back in the opposite direction of the stacks.

I turn blindly back toward the vampire beside me, reaching for him before I even realize it. "We can't let Giles die, Spike," I say numbly, twisting one hand up into the hem of his t-shirt, gripping the closed file with the other and shaking my head. "We can't let that happen."

"We won't," he promises me quickly, cupping my face reassuringly between his hands. He ducks his head a little, catching my eyes. "All part of the plan, remember?"

Right. All part of the plan. Not letting Giles die...definitely...part of the plan. It just seems that much more important now, in light of what we've learned.

I nod, swallowing again. I don't know how my mouth feels too dry and too wet at the same time. My eyes are glued to Spikes, voice quiet, as I ask, "Are you sure you can do it?"

"Do you not trust me?" he asks back, but not like he's _really_ asking. The question feels completely rhetorical.

Even so, I take my time before answering him. I stand there for a minute, quietly just staring at the vampire in front of me. My vampire, somehow, in more ways than one. My Spike. The only person throughout this entire situation who's actually bothered to tell me the truth. Maybe not right away, but always. Eventually.

I swallow down the lump in my throat and nod again, searching his eyes with mine. "I trust you."

He leans forward impulsively to press his lips to mine, then pulls away again, brushing his thumbs across my cheeks as he asks, "What do you wanna do now, pet?"

Spike pulls his hands away from my face and I look down at the piece of typed paper in my hand, at the photograph I have pinned down to it with my thumb. Studying it, my eyes tracing and retracing the lines of my mother's face, and then my father's. I let go of Spike's t-shirt and straighten my shoulders, tuck the piece of paper back down into the folder and set it down on top of the massive file cabinet, taking the photograph and sliding it carefully into the back pocket of my jeans.

"We need to talk to Giles."


End file.
